Semantics
by coffeeonthepatio
Summary: -Hand over your wand. It is to be snapped and you're exiled from the Wizarding World from this day onward.- Severus has to deal with his life without magic. A story about Mugglishness, well-meaning neighbours, well-meaning students and Linguistics.
1. Sentence

_**I don't make any money with this story, nothing belongs to me, I'm just having fun and playing a little for your, and my, entertainment. **_

_**xx**_

_Semantics is the study of the meaning of words, phrases and sentences. In semantic analysis, there is always an attempt to focus on what the words conventionally mean, rather than on what a speaker might want the words to mean on a particular occasion. This technical approach to meaning emphasizes the objective and the general. It avoids the subjective and the local. Linguistic semantics deals with the conventional meaning conveyed by the use of words and sentences of a language._

(Yule, 1985)

.

The wizened wizard with the beetled eyebrows stared at Severus Snape, former Death Eater, former Potions Master of Hogwarts and murderer of Albus Dumbledore. There had been a vote. It had all happened more or less democratically, and while the heroes of the Light, amongst them the newly dubbed Golden Trio, all spoke more or less highly of him, praised his bravery, it did not seem to impress the old and revered body of the Wizengamot. This little figure in black, most of them thought, sitting erectly and proudly in the middle of the huge, dark room, surrounded by them, had killed their former Chief Warlock. The current Chief Warlock, the wizened wizard with the beetled eyebrows, was an ancient person called Adalbert Tremlett who had spent the years during Lord Voldemort's reign in Norway, away from the war. That one person cleared his throat and as he still looked and tried to find a way into Severus Snape's mind, he knew he would have to go against the wishes of most of those other witches and wizards in the Wizengamot who wanted that lone, dark figure to receive the Dementor's Kiss. He could not let this happen to that man and so, he quickly decided to go against the rest of them.

But punishment had to be, and this way, he might be able, he thought, to soothe the body of the Wizengamot.

"Your punishment, Severus Tobias Snape..." said Adalbert Tremlett slowly. "Hand over your wand. It is to be snapped and your exiled from the Wizarding World from this day onward. Any re-entry into our world will result in the Dementor's Kiss!" He had to shout the last part. It was idiotic to lose such a bright mind and such a brave man, but it was better than to leave him to rot, soullessly, in a dark pit of Azkaban. But he could not be a wizard. He had committed a sin, he had to be punished. "You will be tracked, much like an underage wizard. Any use of magic and you will receive the Kiss. Now, hand it over and then just...disappear."

The dark, lone man seemed to wear shoes made of lead and he seemed weak as he shuffled forward, his eyes downcast. He produced a beautiful wand, made from dark wood out of the folds of his robes and gave it, reluctantly, to a clerk, who in turn, gave it to the Chief Warlock with a flourish.

It was the oddest noise, like twigs reluctantly creaking, like wood not wanting to be broken and the snapping sound seemed to be a long time coming but there it was. A crack, and Severus Snape's wand was no more.

.

Even though there was no one but the Wizengamot allowed when they passed the sentence, there were two people hidden underneath an Invisibility Cloak on the topmost, empty, visitor stands. It was cramped underneath the cloak and the air was so thick, it was maybe possible to cut it with a knife but both young ones hidden there listened with rapt attention.

"Can they do that?" asked the female.

"It's unfair," muttered the male.

"That's what I mean. Can they do that?" hissed the female.

"I s'pose," replied the male.

"Can't you ask someone? Can't we change it?"

"He's lucky he didn't end up with the Kiss," the male muttered angrily. "That's what Arthur said."

"But he's a hero," shrieked the female. Quietly. As quietly as you could shriek.

"I think they see him more as a murderer," the male said darkly.

"Preposterous."

"Agreed."

.

It seemed almost ironic, Severus Snape, newly made Muggle, thought, that he would be led out of the Ministry of Magic, straight into Muggle London, by one of his former students, Michael Singh, a Hufflepuff who had received more detentions for melting cauldrons than any other. It was truly ironic, Severus Snape thought, that this Michael Singh, still trembled under his gaze and seemed afraid. And he had no power whatsoever anymore. He had been tried and sentences for his deeds done, for the sins he had committed, for all his transgressions. He was lucky to be alive, he was lucky to have the rest of his crippled soul. And then he stood there. On a little street, a bit off, he knew, from Charing Cross Road. If he wandered down that street, he'd be on Shaftesbury Avenue. And from there, he could easily find his way towards Piccadilly Circus. With the fifty Pounds the Ministry had so graciously given him. They probably did not want him stranded somewhere in the middle of England. If they had known he'd had the foresight of actually withdraw all his money from Gringotts, had it changed into Pound Sterling and that it was stacked away inside the mattress of his bed in Spinner's End, they probably would not have been so gracious. But he could get the Tube from Piccadilly Circus, the train up North from Euston or St Pancras. If he got to his dingy Spinner's End house, he would be alright. The money there would last until he had a plan.

He needed a plan.

His entire life had been turned upside down. He had suspected to be Kissed. Or at the very least, he expected to spend the rest of his life in Azkaban. He had not expected to be cast out of the Wizarding World. He had not expected to be free.

Free. He did not know what that meant. And now he was free – whatever that meant – without a wand. Without the ability to use magic. Being made a Muggle and that almost, almost seemed like poetic justice. Being turned into that which people, the general public, thought he was so against. He had to admit that it had not sunk in yet. And after the almost six months he had spent in Azkaban, just to breathe the dirty, smog-filled London air, was wonderful. Severus Snape let his head fall backwards and looked up to the sky, the greyish clouds rushing by, a few drops of rain falling on his face. He was hungry and he was thirsty but those meandering thoughts in his mind, back and fro and back again. That morning, his head had been clear in his cell in Azkaban. He had known that he would, at best, die. At worst, would suffer worse than death. Six months that he had time to wonder about the effects of a Dementor's Kiss, and while they weren't kept to be guarding the prison anymore, they were still there, around, kept to carry out Kisses. Some nights, he had been able to feel them. Or maybe that had just been the overwhelming despair inside himself.

He had never expected to survive and from what he knew, he had been on the brink of death, knocking on Death's door for around three weeks. Three weeks during which medi-witches and -wizards at St Mungo's had fought for his life, only to be put to Azkaban after another six weeks of convalescence. They should have just, he had thought so many times, let him die. It would have spared the Wizarding population of the United Kingdom a lot of expenses. The overly long trial. His extended stay at Azkaban and now the £ 50.

He could nevertheless not deny the relief he felt as the rain fell on his face and on his greasy hair and he did not even care that he wore his old robes, the ones he had been found in and the ones that had only been mended slightly. He had other clothes back home. Old clothes of his father's but clothes, nevertheless. He could not just transfigure his robes now. He could not just apparate. He would truly have to watch himself, would have to make sure not to brew potions and not to do some accidental, wandless magic. They would know. No doubt about it. Or maybe his brain was too muddled by those sudden turn of events, that he could not think.

He had slowly begun to walk, down Shaftesbury Avenue, black cabs and other cars rushing by, some other pedestrians passing him, not caring about his clothes when the rain got heavier. And this was London. People could dress strangely in London and get away with it. And back home, he had his father's old clothes. He would have to stay there for the time being until he sorted out his thoughts. Until he knew what to do.

All the thoughts – no means of income without magic, no way of earning money – were pushed aside when he bought a ticket for the Tube and was suddenly surrounded by people, lots and lots of people. He had to focus on his breathing, knowing exactly that a crowd could always mean trouble – and he was without any kind of defence, without his wand. He missed it, his sleeve was empty, his pocket was empty. He felt almost naked and in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of a lot of people, he found he had difficulties breathing. He had difficulties finding his step on the stairs and he kept to the utmost left, almost clinging to the handrail. He didn't dare to touch it – but it was there and he knew it was there. Something to hold on to if he needed it. And he followed the crowd, trying to breath and felt himself swept into the Tube.

.

The house looked the same, however, the last time, he had been in there, the last time, he had gone out, he had added wards upon wards upon wards. He had no wand now. He couldn't get into his own house. Not in the regular way. However, he hoped that the house recognised him still and so he went around to the back and stared, for long, long minutes, at the glass of the window and for a moment, he wondered, then made a fist slowly and his hand broke the glass. Nothing happened apart from the glass shattering, his hand bleeding and aching, a tiny shard of glass sticking between his knuckles. He pulled it out, first, before he carefully stuck his hand inside and turned the handle. He felt absolutely no wards in place. Nothing. Maybe they had fallen when they had snapped his wand, maybe they were still there and he couldn't feel them. He wasn't sure but he could get into his own house. He could get in and realised that it felt, a little bit, like home.

Ignoring the dark and gloomy atmosphere, he went straight to the shower, stepped out of his clothes and decided, he would reactivate the old fireplace – to burn his clothes. He no longer belonged into a black frock coat and he no longer belonged in robes. He belonged in Muggle clothes. Not that it had sunken in yet. He was back at his dingy old home. It didn't feel like anything had changed – apart from his bleeding, hurting hand and the fact that he had not kept any potions in the house. Not that he could use them, probably.

There was nothing in his fridge, he had no plasters in the house. He needed a shower, he needed to go to the shops, he needed to figure out what to do with his life. If there was a life to be had without magic.

.


	2. Features

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**.**_

_Semantic features:_

_A component may be as general as 'animate being'. We can then take this component and use it to describe part of the meaning of words as either plus (+) or minus (-) the feature. So, the feature becomes +_animate_ (=denotes an animate being) or -_animate_ (=does not denote an animate being). This procedure is a way of analyzing meaning in terms of semantic features. Features such as +_animate_, -_animate_; +_human_, -_human_; +_male_, -_male_, for example, can be treated as the basic features involved in differentiating the meanings of each word in the language from every other word. [...] From a feature analysis like this, you can say that at least part of the basic meaning of the word _boy_ in English involved the components (+_human_, +_male_, -_adult_)._

(Yule, 1985)

.

The water in the shower had been cold. It was no surprise to him, truly, but he had wished for a little warmth after the coldness of the trains and the iciness inside his own home. He had, shiveringly, washed away all the grime and dirt and filth and grunge of Azkaban and the trains. He was clean, wearing underwear that was greyer than the skies outside and socks with more holes than fabric. He had tried on trousers of his father but those had slid down his thin, skinny, rawboned frame and he had no wand to resize them, no magic to make them fit. He had found a belt in the old, smelly closet and had tied it around himself, lashed the trousers on him. A horrid, brownish colour, the colour of week-old blood. The shirt wasn't any better, smelling of mothballs and old wood, a mustardy yellow. It was a huge shirt, his father's stomach, bloated off by too much ale and lager and gin and he would have fitted in it – twice. A button was missing, too, but since it was at the bottom, and since Severus had shoved the shirt into the massively huge trousers, nobody could see.

In a moment of clarity, he decided that he would have to buy clothes, any kind of clothes but that moment of clarity soon vanished when his eyes spotted his old bed, in his old room. Nobody had slept in it since he had returned from Hogwarts that last summer. Not even Wormtail. Nobody. There were no sheets, just a naked pillow and an old, ragged duvet but for that moment, when his clarity was gone again, it seemed like the most comfortable thing in the world and he couldn't resist the urge to put himself into that bed. Stretch his legs a bit. Food could wait, sleep – could not.

.

Hermione Granger was surrounded by people, chattering, loud, noisy people. But she, as the young man sitting next to her, was quiet. She did not feel like talking, she did not feel like listening. The image of Snape's wand being snapped, and her former Professer's impenetrable mask of neutrality on his face would not leave her mind. And it seemed that Harry Potter, the young man next to her, felt exactly the same way. She only had to close her eyes and she saw, in her mind's eye, the man being led away. Still proud, still awfully erect, still a bit stiff when he had just, moments ago, basically lost all that he was, all that he had ever been.

The chatter of the Weasley family could not chase those images away, the smell of food on the table, food in over-abundance, made her stomach churn and her pancreas work overtime. She could feel the stinging sensation of acid burning holes in her stomach wall.

"Excuse me," she whispered and left the table as quietly as she could but Harry, her friend, was on her heels immediately. He very possibly felt the same way she did, had not expected this outcome. The very last of the Death Eater trials. The very last verdict and they had both expected a little slap on the fingers for Severus Snape, they had both expected that he would have been hailed, in due time, as the hero he had been. But none of that.

"We have to do something," said Harry, walking slowly next to her, careful not to trod on any garden gnomes.

"I know," replied Hermione tiredly. "But what?"

"I think we should find him first and then we can, I don't know, there must be a way to convince them that this is wrong. Don't they know how many spells he invented? What he did?"

She sighed wearily. "It's the Wizengamot. That Tremlett person was not here when all of this happened. And Kingsley is probably happy to have him away."

"Why should he be?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. But now, they don't have to deal with him. If he had gone free, there would have been the question of how to treat him, how to...oh, forget it Harry, I'm talking rubbish. I don't know. It just seems so unfair," she ran a hand down her face, rubbing her eyes. "Can we do anything?"

"I'll talk to Arthur and to Kingsley. I'll try, Hermione," said Harry slowly. "But..."

"But?" asked Hermione, waving her wand and drying a spot of grass, warming it, too, and sat down.

"I doubt it will work. They've been harsh with the Death Eaters."

"Not with all of them. Malfoy?" she asked with arched eyebrows.

"Malfoy is a … with more money than the rest of the Wizarding World put together. He doesn't count. He would get off with a slap on the wrist if he killed Merlin himself."

"But..."

"Hermione, it's the way it is. We all thought it would change but apparently, wars don't change the structure of the world. Or not that hugely. It's unfair."

"It is unfair," said Hermione darkly.

Harry shrugged and spelled another patch of grass dry and warm. It was mild for the beginning of December but it had been raining for weeks now. He sat down, wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and let her rest her head against his shoulder. "Speaking of unfair," he began hesitantly, "what about..."

"Oh, don't talk about Ron," Hermione huffed and poked his ribs. "It's not unfair. You know how it went. There was no spark left by the time we could admit to wanting to be together. If he had gotten it together by fourth or fifth year, we might still be together but it was just too late. At least he realised it before I did, it wouldn't have worked."

"Must have been the first time that he realised something before you did," he huffed.

"Harry, really, it's fine..."

"And you're not just saying this and getting all worked up over the unfairness of the thing with Snape because you're at the Burrow for the first time since you almost got together?"

"I'm worked up over the unfairness of the thing with Snape because it's unfair and illogical and just completely, utterly stupid. I mean that was absolutely irrational. Take his wand away, put a tracking spell on him, take away all that's his. I don't think they've ever passed a judgement like that and I don't see why they should now. It just doesn't make any sense to me at all. And it's not about Ron. It was high time he found himself a girl and it's been six months, Harry. And we shared one, well, two kisses. No big deal. You always made it seem bigger than it was..."

"Because you were the only one who cried during the celebrations after the fall of Voldemort."

"We should have all cried. I didn't cry because of Ron and you know it. Stop worrying about me. Six months. Well, seven really. And you don't see me falling to pieces because he brought some girl to dinner with his family."

"Hmph. They will think so after you took off like that."

"I took off like that," she argued, "because I saw the snapping of Snape's wand over and over again. And the way he was led out. It's so disgusting."

"Yep, you're right," replied Harry and put his head gently on Hermione's. "We'll find a way, 'Mione, to help him. Wanna stay over tonight?"

"No Ginny?"

He shook his head. "Nah, not tonight."

"Then I'll stay the night," Hermione replied, smiling softly.

.

Severus stood, his stomach grumbling, in front of his parents' bed. His money was in there. It had been put in there with magic and now he had no wand with which he could get it out again. It was in the mattress and there was no other way to get it out but to slice the mattress open. But then again, he had slept well in his old, ancient bed and he did not fancy sleeping in the bed he had slept in during his last, dreadful days in this house – when Wormtail had slept outside in the coal shed.

It had made so much sense at the time to hide all his money in there – nobody could find it and he had thought, in the event of his demise (which he had taken for granted at the time), that this way, it would definitely not fall into the hands of the Ministry of Magic. He had not wanted them to get his entire fortune and his assets. It had seemed like a good idea – and it still, obviously, was. He was showered, he felt at least a tiny bit refreshed after his three-hour nap and now, he needed a knife. There was no way around it.

Slowly, on aching limbs, Azkaban still in his bones, he traipsed down the stairs, had left his old, scuffed boots upstairs and still the old, worn, wooden stairs creaked at every step. He had ignored the depressive, oppressive, dark atmosphere of the house he had grown up in but now that his eyes were open, now that his head was clearer, now that he had slept off some of the drudge of Azkaban and the trial, he noticed, for the first time in at least twenty-five years how rotten this house was. How dark, how little light came in through the dirty windows and how much light was swallowed by the dark furniture. By the books stacked everywhere. Magical books. Books on magic. Books that would not help him anymore. Books that he did not want to see anymore. Books he would have to take care off.

But his stomach grumbled and he needed money first. He needed his money from the mattress and he needed it soon. It would have been so simple if he had a wand. If he could use magic. If he could only find a knife that was sharp. In the kitchen drawer were knives, yes, and he pulled one out, the one that seemed least blunt and slowly walked back up again, staring, once more, at the greying mattress. Why was everything in this house dark or grey? Everything that he owned now – dark or grey? It didn't matter. Not now. Now mattered the coloured bits of paper inside the mattress and he attacked, viciously, the heavy, stiff material, broke through it, panting, exhausted. He had no strength left after his stay at prison. He stabbed the mattress, he sliced, he cut, he cursed silently. He had to get deeper inside. Had wanted his money safe from Wizarding folk. Had rather wanted it all to be thrown out, or to rot in this mattress and now, he couldn't get to it.

He did, however, get to the stack of bank notes after long, sweaty minutes. There were around £12 540 in there. It would be enough – even though he had no idea how expensive things were in this world. He had not been shopping since 1974. Not in a Muggle shop. But, just to be on the safe side, he took out three fifty Pound notes and stuffed them into his pockets. He knew there was a shop at the end of Lancaster Close. Not far. It was one of those big ones and he would have to walk there. And back. Would be about twenty minutes each way, he supposed. But he needed food. He needed plasters for his hand – which had begun to bleed again during his attack of the mattress. He needed – he wasn't sure. The last time, he had been shopping had been in 1974. With his mother.

Still, he would have to go and he had found an old Mackintosh in the closet. It was large as well and he knew, objectively, that he looked like someone who lived on the streets, but maybe that huge, grand shop had some clothes. He doubted it, but then he would have to go find some clothes. In another shop. After he had something to eat. Food came first. The rest later. Everything else later.

There was a key on the little table in the hall and he took it, and if someone cared to break in through the broken glass in the back, they were welcome to take everything, even the old television set. And all his books. He would burn them later anyway. There was no use having something he could not bear to see every day. There as no use having something he could never use again. And they would make a good fire. It would keep him warm for a while. And after that, he could burn some of the oppressive furniture. Warmth was more important. Winter was just beginning. Food and warmth. Just the basics. He needed those.

.

Hermione sat and talked with Harry over a bottle of elf-made wine. He, like she, couldn't get Severus Snape out of his head. And even there, in the cleaned up, now cosy atmosphere of Grimmauld Place, she shivered when she remembered how he walked out of there. They didn't know where he had gone and how to stop that verdict. Maybe it was no use. Maybe there was a time to give up, like she had given up on S.P.E.W. back then. The Wizengamot was a revered body, their decree was absolute. It was the ultimate decision making instance.

But maybe, they could make his life simpler. Maybe they could find him and help him find his way around. Help him find a job, help him with the daily life.

She sat on the plush carpet, opposite Harry, her eyelids dropping. "We have to find him, Harry," slurred Hermione.

"We will," he slurred back. "More wine?"

"No. But we will have to help him, Harry. He's saved us so many times."

"We will. And he did. He really did."

.

The bright lights had made his eyes hurt and the smells had overwhelmed him and the bags were heavy and he had no way of lightening them. His arms hurt awfully by the time he got home and he had not bought any kind of pain medicine, only plasters and canned foods he knew and a bit of bread, a bit of butter. Surprisingly enough, there had been clothes. Loads of clothes and he had just picked two shirts, a pair of jeans, socks, underwear. White underwear, black socks, blue jeans, blue shirts. He would get through it for the time being. As long as he could figure out how to use the old washing machine. Which, he noticed then, would take another trip to the shop, buying washing powder.

Severus felt like a little child that, for the first time, has to learn how to take care of himself. He had done the washing before – he would just have to remember. And the remembering would begin soon – Occlumency was magic after all and he couldn't push anything back. Already images came rushing back to him, things he had never wanted to remember.

But maybe, if he waded through all the bad memories, he would be able to make himself remember how to work the washing machine and how to cook the basics.

.


	3. Productivity

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Productivity: _

_It is a feature of all languages that novel utterances are continually being created. A child learning language is especially active in forming and producing utterances which he or she has never heard before. With adults, new situations arise or new objects have to be described, so the language-users manipulate their linguistic resources to produce new expressions and new sentences. This property of human language has been termed productivity (or 'creativity', or 'open-endedness'). It is an an aspect of language which is linked to the fact that the potential number of utterances in any human language is infinite. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

Severus Snape stared long and hard at the cold and empty fireplace. He had memories of that fireplace and nothing to hold them back. His mind was swimming in those days in the past when he had sat in front of it to get the chill from his youthful bones after a day of being outside, or when he had sat in front of it when it had been just as cold as it was now. The nook he had hidden in when his parents had argued wasn't far away either. He was sure, if someone would look closely, they could see a permanent dent where his childish body had pressed itself tightly against the wall. He didn't look closely. He was entirely focused on the fireplace, on the rickety chair he had found in the kitchen and the matches he had bought, as well as the stack of books he had carried, after his luxurious meal of lukewarm beans on hard, burned toast, inside the living room. He didn't dare to look at the titles. He didn't want to look at the titles. He did not want to think about the fact that most of his income had been spent on these books. He did not want to think about the treasures that lay hidden in the frail pages. He could not bear to see them, and he could bear even less to think about them. To think about how much they had meant to him, how much solace they had given him, that at times, they had been his sole company. He couldn't.

With his foot in the brand new socks, he kicked the chair and miraculously a leg fell off already. Another kick, and the chair was in pieces. Pieces which he stacked, carefully, in the fireplace. He threw the books in, couldn't truly bring himself to look at them and struck a match against an open page of yet another book, watched how it began to shrink under the heat, how it turned into licking flames, how the book seemed to be consumed by the growing flame. This book, and he caught a glimpse of it, definitely _Potionery through the Ages_, he put gently in top of the rest in the fireplace, then turned away. He could not watch.

He turned away, walked out of the living room, hoped with all his being that this would all catch fire, that he did not have to relight it, that it would just burn and went to the kitchen. It still smelled like burned toast and lukewarm beans and he felt something bubbling inside himself. Something he had not felt since that first night he had been brought to Azkaban, since the had dragged him off from St Mungo's. It was bubbling, burning, raging. It was a torrent and all he could do was wait for it to end. There was nothing he could do, no Occlumentic technique he could employ. He felt beside himself, felt, almost, as if he was watching himself. Watching himself in the oddly matching, oddly fitting, oddly strange Muggle clothing raging in the kitchen, his feet, his fists, his arms, his legs flailing around, destroying everything in their reach. Another rickety chair lost its legs and flew through the little kitchen, the kitchen table was thrown against the wall, another chair fell against the stove, pots and pans came crashing to the floor, tiles broke underneath them.

He watched himself, he heard himself shouting and crying out and making guttural noises that animals would be proud of it and he wished, he wished he had his wand, or his Occlumency or anything, really. Or... He wished he was dead.

.

"Hermione?" someone said, shaking her by the shoulder and she tried to blink her eyes open, tried to push the masses of frizzy, uncooperative hair from her face.

"Mpfhglr," she replied, doing her best to form words – or see how was waking her.

"I've talked to Kingsley, Hermione," said that someone – and her head, slowly, very slowly, registered the words. Harry. Severus Snape. Loss of wand and magic.

"What?" she sat up, insistently pushing her hair back.

"I talked to Kingsley," repeated Harry slowly.

"Yes, yes," she answered impatiently, "and?"

"And," he sat down on the edge of the bed, "it seems someone was over-eager, and someone...Kingsley suspects it was one of the Malfoys but there is a sort of ban on Snape. It's irreversible that's why it was made illegal and it's old magic, so..."

"Get to the point," she snapped.

"There is a sort of spell on Snape. More like a curse, I'd say, or a jinx. Well, a..."

"Stop with the Semantics already, what did they do? What happened? What did Kingsley say?" she shouted.

"Severus Snape cannot do magic. He's basically not magic anymore and if he tries, really hard, to get through this jinx, curse, spell, whatever, he'll die, or if someone else does, for that matter. It's like an overdeveloped Unbreakable Vow. Kingsley found the entire matter just as ridiculous as we...

"He what?" she hated to be woken like this. She hated getting bad news first thing in the morning.

"He cannot use magic anymore. Someone must have been in the courtroom with us as well, or it was one of Malfoy's lackeys in the Wizengamot. They know it wasn't on him when he was brought into the courtroom. You know they check for Polyjuice and stuff like that now and for curses and jinxes and spells and there was nothing on him. But Kingsley checked on Snape..."

"Can he do that?" interrupted Hermione.

"Apparently," sighed Harry, "and he's effectively a Squib. No, a Muggle. Or a half-Muggle. Or whatever the..."

"You're very fond of Semantics today," she shrieked. "What does he plan to do?"

"That's the point. He cannot do anything. He cannot. If he tries to lift that Squib-Curse – that's how he called it – Snape will die. If Snape tries to break it – Snape will die. There is no need for a Tracking anymore because effectively, if he uses magic, he will die."

She let herself fall back on the bed and covered her face with her hands. "Who invents something like that?"

"Kingsley doesn't know. But it's old magic, that much he said. It was probably used to defeat enemies back in Merlin's days or sometime. There is nothing anyone can do. And it's a Dark Curse, and all we can do at the moment, is run a spell over Snape, which might not kill him, and find out who did it. But we don't know if that works. He's...It's..."

"Hopeless," she muttered. "He can't get his magic back."

"No," Harry lay down on the bed she regularly occupied at Grimmauld Place and stared, much as she did, up at the ceiling. "And what's worse, every ward he put into place has fallen. He seemed to have added tens of thousands of layers on Hogwarts and they all fell yesterday."Nobody had noticed them before because they were subtle and...well, Kingsley said that McGonagall has never been so agitated in all her life."

Hermione sighed and rolled over to face Harry. "I don't understand it. Here we are, here you are, and here she is and you all give testimony, there are Pensieves, there is Veritaserum and he still get his wand snapped."

"Hermione, the verdict, now, doesn't matter. Kingsley said he would have overruled it, would have waited a month or two for the attention to die down, and would have brought him back in, would have given him a new wand. But that's not possible now. There are hundreds of people in front of the Ministry protesting for Snape. But if we bring him back...a wand would only make it worse."

"He's really a Muggle."

"Yes," he sighed and opened his arms wide when Hermione came to snuggle in. It wasn't uncommon since the end of the war and yet, if Ginny would see them this way, she would grow red in the face and would begin screaming again. She was the jealous type. Not that there was anything to be jealous about, really. At least not concerning her. She was happy being alone, she was happy though as well that she had Harry who always gave her hugs and always let her cuddle up. But they were friends. Strictly best friends. Besides, Hermione suspected that the thing with Ginny had, maybe, run it's course. She wasn't sure of it but there had been a moment when they had been out the evening before last when Harry's eyes had lightened up. Upon seeing, well, a Muggle man. Man as in male. She wasn't sure of course, not at all but there had been moments when she had thought that he seemed to appreciate the male physique better than the female. And...well, she was going against all that she was and all her instincts and her grain but she didn't ask. She kept her thoughts to herself. That was one thing he would have to tell her. And not have pried out of him.

Still, she enjoyed snuggling with him. He was warm and familiar and just Harry. The person she could rely on, despite his temper and his hero-complex.

"Why did I sleep so long? Or did you get up early?" she asked suddenly.

"I couldn't sleep at all. And you drank a hell of a lot more elf-made wine than I did," he chuckled and it vibrated against her cheek. "You sang when I brought you up here."

"Again?" she groaned. "What of Snape's potions?"

"Nope," he said. Well, he could make potions but they wouldn't be magical. They would be more like herbal tea or just disgusting smelling and tasting goo."

"He will kill himself," said Hermione darkly. "Harry, what can he do?"

"We'll find out. Sooner or later. Aunt Petunia was most forthcoming when I asked her where they used to live. It's astonishing that you only have to whip your wand out and that woman sings like a little birdy. And better than you," he smirked and pressed a kiss on her temple.

.

He had fallen on the floor, or had sat down there, he couldn't remember. Or maybe one of the impacts of throwing something against something else had taken his last bit of strength. He wasn't sure. But he knew he was on the ground and his entire body hurt from the, well, exercise. He had no strength left. Azkaban had cost him all strength. But at least he had just produced a lot more wood to burn. He wouldn't freeze quickly that winter. Not that he had a coat apart from the old Mackintosh and maybe an old coat of his father's. But that reminded him, in his dazed state on the kitchen floor, that he would have to do something about that too. As quickly as he could, which wasn't quickly at all, he picked himself up from the dirty tiles and trudged, slowly up the stairs.

He gathered all his father's clothing in his arms – something he should have done years ago and took the robes he had been wearing for – seventeen years – and made his way down the stairs again. This was exercise. He would get exercise just by being unable to Summoning things. By having to fetch them. By having to walk and not Apparate. By having to...it didn't matter. There were a lot of things to be done before he could think about losing his magic. He needed...

First things first.

The fire obviously had worked and it burned nicely through the legs of the former rickety chair. The books were all gone, not even a cover left and he quickly threw in another leg of the chair and first, his father's clothes. He wanted them gone. He did not want to remember the looks of some of the people – most of the people – who had passed him as he had gone shopping. They had that pitiful look in their eyes and he had felt like some of them wanted go give him money or maybe thought he was a homeless person. And maybe he was. This house did not feel like home.

But – he had no other choice but make it at least habitable. He would be able to sleep in his old room, as he had done the night before and the nap before that. He would clear out his parents' former bedroom and he would burn all the furniture. It made little sense to heat with anything else when that had to go in any case. He needed paint on the walls and he needed to clean. He desperately needed to clean.

House elves had been marvellous creatures. They were marvellous creatures. They loved to clean and they loved to do the laundry and the washing up and all the chores he had to do now. But it couldn't be put off. He had had a good breakfast of lukewarm beans on burned toast (much like his tea had been) and he had a fire going and now he had to tackle the next thing on his list of priorities.

The windows looked like they hadn't been washed since his mother had died and he faintly remembered the carpet of being a friendlier colour. Not that he wanted a friendlier colour – he just wanted the dirt to be gone. He wanted this to look like nothing the old house had looked like. And he didn't even know why, well, apart from the fact that it slowly trickled into his empty, stuffed brain that he would have to stay there. He had nowhere else to go, no other choice. Had to live in that hovel and if he had to live in that hovel, that hovel better not remind him of that dreadful summer when he had made the one mistake that had led him to be there now. He wanted nothing there to remind him that that insipid creature that was half man, half rat had been there. He did not want to be reminded that this was the place where he had spent his miserable childhood, and he did not want to be reminded that this was the place where his mother had given up on herself after his father had run away.

This needed to change. He was forced to change, so this hovel better change with him.

The living room was hot and he had no other choice but to roll his sleeves up, his eyes firmly not on the marred skin on his forearm and he began, with a huge bowl filled with soapy water he had found in the kitchen, to wash off the grime of the windows. Dirt that had collected there for over twenty years.

He didn't mind that his shirt got splashed and he had no idea if what he was doing was in any way, shape or form correct but he did it. This stupid, silly washing of windows kept his mind off other things. His memories bubbled just below the surface and he knew that any moment that he stopped doing something, they would burst through, would infect his brain, infest his thoughts. It would make him taste bile in his mouth and he was rather surrounded by acid smell of window washing things than the taste of bile.

He scrubbed vigorously, not noticing that the window next door open and that old Mrs Callaghan stuck her head out, made tutting noise and shouted a greeting in his direction. He was too busy scraping the dirt away, the bad things that had happened in that house. Was too busy not remembering.

.


	4. Face Threatening Act

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Face-saving Act / Face-threatening Act_

_If you say something that represents a threat to another person's self-image, that is called a face-threatening act. For example, if you use a direct speech act to order someone to do something (_Give me that paper!_), you are acting as if you have more social power than the other person. If you do not actually have the social power, then you are performing a face-threatening act. An indirect speech act, in the form of a question (_Could you pass me that paper, please?_), removes the assumption of social power. You appear to be asking about ability. This makes your request less threatening to the other person's sense of self. Whenever you say something that lessens the possible threat to another's face, it's called a face-saving act. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

It took him three days and five trips to the supermarket but then, finally, the house resembled a house and not a dump and not a hovel. All the furniture was put into pieces, either by raging fits of temper of by the mere work of an axe and a hammer he had found in the old cellar. There was nothing left, expect the bed in his former nursery, and the small cupboard that held his clothes in there, as well as the things in the kitchen. The living room was completely bare, except the left over stacks of books he needed to get the fire going and the stacks of wood that used to be furniture. The colours on the walls were different, darker where no furniture had stood, a little lighter where there had been the cupboards. But all was yellow-brownish. He had never noticed before but there were obviously still traces of the thousands of cigarettes his father had smoked in that house. He needed wallpaper or paint. And furniture.

The carpet had been cleaned, the dust was gone, he aired the entire house for hours and hours and he had managed to warm up a tin of spaghetti and had only burned about half of it while the rest remained cold. He did not want to remember that he knew the exact right temperature when it came to potions but could not do the same with a simple stove.

He had nevertheless eaten all of it. He always ate all of what he had cooked, or heated up. Or tried to, at least. He felt hungry all the time, his stomach continually growling and wanting more and more. He drank litres of water every day, thirsty and hungry. And he always sat in front of the fire in the living room with his half-burned, half cold meals. He had no chairs left and he was always cold. Besides, staring into the flames made him forget, or at least made him – not remember. In the four nights he had spent there, the four nights since he had been let out of Azkaban, he had woken up screaming during three. All except the first one. He could always remember the dreams, always knew what he dreamed about but instead of dwelling on them, instead of thinking about them, he usually got up – in the middle of the night – and went to clean some more. The bathroom was spotless. The kitchen was spotless, despite the one burnt-beyond-recognition-pot and the cracked tiles on the floor. The living room, apart from the yellow-brownish tinge to the walls was spotless, the hall was spotless. The empty room that used to be his parents' bedroom was spotless, his former nursery was spotless. He could say with absolute certainty that there wasn't a single spider living in his house – apart from the cellar – but that he had, carefully, captured about thirty-seven spiders of all varieties and had carried all of them outside and had there, in the small garden, set them free.

Paint and garden, that was next. But he couldn't very well tend to his garden in the middle of the night. He could paint in the middle of the night, so he would, he thought, go to the shop just before closing time, tiring him out so he could go to sleep and maybe be so exhausted that he slept the night through, and if he didn't, he could paint during the night. Now, while there was still light, he would attack the garden. The grass was so high that he could get lost in it – and it looked like nobody had ever cared for it (even though he knew for a fact that his mother had a little herb garden out there, back when she had still been half-way normal).

He didn't honestly know what he would want with that little patch of green outside but he knew that he had to busy himself. And what better what to keep his hands from raking through his hair and his mind from wandering that pulling out weeds and cutting grass?

He had found another pair of trousers at the supermarket, heavy fabric, the kind builders wore and he wore them when he cleaned, together with a black jumper he had found, which had been on sale and which was only slightly too big and the sleeves were slightly too short. The sun was shining that day, a cold, bright day, and so he put a shirt underneath the jumper and with scissors and a scythe he had found in the cellar, he made his way outside. The cold air hit his lungs mercilessly and his fingers froze on the handle of the scythe but he knew from experience these days, that working and exercise warmed one up immediately.

He couldn't remember ever having used a scythe and so, first, he looked at it, let the thoughts of how it should logically be used invade his brain, made himself think hard about it as he put the scissors down on the ground. After a moment, he swung it – and despite its age and the fact that it had stood in the cellar to rot, it cut through the grass easily. His eyes widened considerably.

He had experienced, in the past few days, what kind of, well, satisfaction it could bring to see a former dirty, dingy bathroom mirror being polished to reflect everything perfectly (and the satisfaction it could bring to afterwards smash it with one's fist), or how one could bring himself into a state of almost contentment at seeing an entire living room stripped of furniture. He understood labour. He had experienced it. The rushing by moments when he knew he had achieved something with his hands.

And this was even better. Where high grass had stood a moment ago, there was now – just a stubble of grass. Easily to walk over and he swung his scythe again. And again. And again. He broke out into a sweat and he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, then his shirt as he swung the scythe again and again and again.

Until there was no grass left. He could spot the former herb garden of his mother, he could see her in his mind's eye, crouching low and explaining to a little him the properties of Stoneflower which was prohibited to grow. He could recite it in his head, had used it in potions all the time – and then he stopped himself. He couldn't think about this. Leaning on his scythe, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He couldn't think of potions and of his mother and of herb gardens. He wouldn't plant anything. Or, if pressed, he would plant vegetables. Potatoes, peas. No pumpkins. Tomatoes. Anything he could eat raw and didn't have to heat up. But no herbs. No herbs and no plants with magical properties. He couldn't.

He shook his head to himself. He needed to find something to do.

"Want a cup of tea, lad?" he heard suddenly, his head spinning around, whipping around, his eyes unfocused for a moment. Slowly, there was a face. An old face. Grey hair pulled on top of a head, greenish eyes, wrinkles all around her mouth and eyes and – the entire face. A mouth that smiled. A cup of tea in wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. He remembered her. Mrs Callaghan. Next door neighbour. And he had thought everyone had moved out. Had never spotted her before. But maybe, he was too busy in his own mind to see anyone.

"You are Severus, aren't you?" she asked. "You were here last year but we barely got to see each other, right?" she continued. "You like exactly like your mam, may she rest in peace,"said she, "not a bit of your father in there, except for that nose."

Severus cleared his throat. It almost seemed as if he had forgotten how to speak. He couldn't remember the last time he had spoken in a complete sentence. Before he had gone to Azkaban. That much was sure.

"There you go. Drink the tea," said Mrs Callaghan and beckoned him closer with her arthritic finger. "I didn't poison it."

In a daze, surrounded by what felt like thick fog, he lifted his scythe and walked to the small wall that divided his garden from hers. The small wall on which the old woman leaned and where she had put the steaming, hot, mug of tea. It smelled in the clear cold air. Smelled like bergamot and heavenly. He looked at her, and cleared his throat.

"Thank you," he said and didn't immediately recognise his voice. He had not used it for a long time. It was rusty and croaky and old.

The old woman smiled at him, her right, upper canine missing. "I've got it from Aldi. It's their own brand," she continued, with only the slightest Irish lilt to her tone.

He took a sip of the fragrant, warming liquid, staring into the dense fog it created before his eyes. He allowed the memories to flood his brain. Yes, Mrs Callaghan. She had been there for as long as he could remember. She had always been kind to him, always had a kind word for him when he had run out if his parents had argued. And she was still there. Should be close to eighty these days but apparently still quite fit.

"Thank you," he said again because he didn't know what else to say.

"Did you come to stay now?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," he muttered into his tea.

"Ah, that's grand," she smiled again. "And you live by yourself? No wife? Girlfriend?"

He stared at the woman. He didn't remember her as being quite so – nosy. He took another sip of his tea, not exactly knowing how he should reply to this. "By myself," he found himself saying then and, she smiled.

"Poor lad," she said. "I heard noises in the house during the night, and I saw you cleaning windows. Men don't clean windows, dear lad. You should have told me. I have a shelf to put up and you could have done that while I'd've cleaned your windows."

Severus stared. And just took another sip of tea.

.

"Are you sure we're at the right place?" asked Hermione, looking around suspiciously. It was one of those dead, Nothern English towns that nobody seemed to live in anymore. There was a row of houses, and next to it, another row of houses. And another.

"Yes, it's the right address," Harry replied, pulling on her arm. "This is the house," he pointed at the house at the end of the row of houses. "This is where he lives. There's even the smell of the river that Aunt Petunia described. And I think," his voice softened to a whisper, "my mum lived down there."

"If you like, we can go there later," Hermione smiled at him and took his hand in hers and squeezed gently.

He nodded his consent. "Will you, or shall I?" he pointed at the doorbell.

Hermione breathed deeply. Then shook her head. "You do it."

"Listen," Harry said suddenly. "Can you hear that?"

She first wanted to shake her head, but then there was something. A voice. A voice that sounded like, no, two voices. One that sounded like a woman, with a soft, Irish accent, and the other voice was – undoubtedly – Snape. In that moment, Hermione wasn't sure how she felt. She knew they were interfering. They were barging in. They had basically no business there. They had never even gotten along with Snape. But something had made them come. Something had made them both want to see him. Not to gloat – but to help.

However, some part of her brain told her to get away. He would not appreciate seeing them, quite on the contrary, probably...

"You can mow my lawn too, and I'll cook for you," she heard, the Irish stronger now and accentuated by a laugh. "I've been smelling burned beans in thelast days. And you look even thinner than your mam ever looked. You need good food."

She looked at Harry, puzzled but he only nodded and pulled her, quickly, around the house. "Harry, we can't..."

"He will never open the door," hissed Harry.

"I can take care of myself, Mrs Callaghan," they heard a voice that sounded remarkably like Snape. Down to the scathing remark and the mean tone.

There was a soft sigh. "I will bring you something over then."

And there, she saw him. Standing, very thin, in trousers that Hermione had last seen on builders that had fixed her parents' garden and a black sweater that was about three sizes too big for him. His hair was longer than ever – but it seemed cleaner than ever as well. And he leaned on a scythe. With a mug of tea in his hands.

The old women with the Irish accent spotted them first and her smile vanished off her face immediately.

"You never said you had children," she said accusingly and poked her fingers in his too thin ribs. He spun around immediately and his face, gaunt and tired, paled even further. His eyes grew hard upon seeing her and Harry and Hermione wanted nothing more at that moment than to run for her life.

.


	5. Coherence

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Coherence: _

_The key to the concept of coherence is not something which exists in the language, but something which exists in people. It is people who 'make sense' of what they read and hear. They try to arrive at an interpretation which is in line with their experience of the way the wrls is. Indeed, our ability to make sense of what we read is probably only a small part of that general ability we have to make sense of what we perceive or experience in the world. […] You would necessarily be involved in a process of filling in a lot of 'gaps' which exist in the text. You would have to create meaningful connections which are not actually expressed by the words and sentences. This process is not restricted to trying to understand 'odd' texts. In one way or another, it seems to be involved in our interpretation of all discourse. It is certainly present in the interpretation of casual conversation. _

_We are continually taking part in conversational interactions where a great deal of what is mean is not actually present in what is said. Perhaps it is the ease with which we ordinarily anticipate each other's intentions that makes this whole complex process seem so unremarkable. _

_(Yule, 1985)_

_._

"They are not my children," Severus Snape found his voice. "I have never seen them before in my life," he added towards Mrs Callaghan, then turned his head to face Potter and Granger. "Get off my land," he snapped.

"But Professor Snape, we came..." Potter took a step forward, but was held back by Granger.

"They seem to know you," Mrs Callaghan chuckled. "Professer, now?"

He didn't know what to do. For the first time since he had left London, since he had come there, he didn't have a plan, he didn't know the next step and that, strangely, unsettled him. He had absolutely no longing to see those two – and he did not know what to tell Mrs Callaghan and so, he took the easy way.

Placing the almost empty mug on the small wall that separated him from Mrs Callaghan and nodding once, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his house. He was no longer part of that world, and he had been able to see Potter's wand sticking out from the back of his jeans.

"Professor Snape!" he heard Granger shout but he merely shut his door tightly, the scythe still in his hand, and kept walking towards the cellar. The scythe back in the cellar and the plans of buying paint had gone out of the window.

Again, memories flooded his brain. Days and nights of observing Potter and his two little friends. The way he – they – wanted to save everyone. The way Granger made things her mission. The way poor little Bod had twitched with his ears and had complained to him that there were clothes all over the castle. He missed the little elf with the sparkling yellow eyes who seemed to like him.

No. He couldn't afford to miss things. He had to get his life on track. He had to get that paint. He had to paint. But maybe he should eat first. Tea, and he still had about three hours until the shops closed. He had no longing to see them. So he would wait. He would heat up a meal and would then check if they were still out there – as far as he could see them. Then he could get his paint. Yes, that was the way he would do it.

.

"Bloody brilliant," Harry muttered sarcastically as they slowly retreated from the piercing gaze of Snape's neighbour.

"Well, what did you expect?" huffed Hermione? "That he'd invite us in, make us a cup of tea and hug us and tell us that he's happy to see us?"

"You agree that it was a good idea to see him," he argued hotly.

"Yes, I agreed but it was a stupid idea. We didn't think it through. And we shouldn't have just barged in like that. I mean we stomped into his garden."

Harry shook his head. "What do we do then?"

"Erm," she replied. "I think we'll leave it for now. Maybe we should have waited another week, give him a little more time to adjust to the situation."

"So we go home?"

Hermione shrugged one shoulder, then nodded slowly. "Yes. It's no use staying here. He won't see us." In all honesty, she had no intention of going home. She disliked her home now – now that it was only her parents house. Now that her parents had only come home once since she had restored their memories, now that they had decided to stay in Australia for the time being, having found friends there, having found brilliant jobs there, liking the weather and the people. But she could not sell the house – not as long as she wasn't sure what to do with her future after taking her NEWTs. She wasn't going back to Hogwarts, she prepared on her own, with the little help of the Headmistress and free access to the library at Hogwarts. Couldn't stand to be there anymore. Didn't know why. But she had work to do, she had a future to plan. And for the time being, her old room in her parents' former house would do. Not that it mattered to anyone if she stayed with Harry, not that anyone cared whether she ate whatever came out of a packet. Not that anyone cared whether she went days without talking to anyone if Harry was busy in his Auror training. It was all fine. She had books and she had work to do.

And now, she had the task of making at least sure, Snape knew that he shouldn't even try to use magic. That was all she wanted. But it would be less conspicuous if she waited for him to come out of his house eventually. She could do it with Disillusionment Charms, Warming Charms and a Disillusioned Thermos with hot tea. She would apparate away with Harry and would then return. Maybe he would leave his house – and if not, she could always return the next day. And one day, he would have to leave his house. And meeting him on the street was infinitely better than to try and get into his house. Politer. More neutral.

She smiled at Harry. "There will be another way," she muttered cheerfully. "Maybe he will accept an owl if you write one?"

He smiled back and hugged her. "Maybe I will do that. I still have to thank him properly. Want to stay the night?"

"No Ginny?" she asked, mockingly.

"Not tonight," he shook his head.

"Yeah, me neither, I think. I have to study and have an appointment with a doctor tomorrow," she fibbed.

"Doctor?" he asked, alarmed.

"Just the usual, female check you have to do once in a while," she smirked at his blush and kissed his cheek. "I'll talk to you soon though. And let me know if you write that owl."

.

He had seen them disappear behind the corner and then, there was nothing. They had walked away, probably apparated away but Severus Snape had learned one thing from his former life – never trust anything. He needed curtains after he had burned the last ones but the supermarket had none. At least he had found none. And the old place, the town he remembered from when he had grown up there wasn't the same. If worst came to worst, he would have to, well, ask Mrs Callaghan where one could get decent curtains. And maybe a chair or two. That would be sufficient. Or a table so he could eat like a human being, not a brute, a beast, on the floor.

And maybe he could find a book store. He didn't dare to even open one of the others but he missed reading. When he rifled through his memories, when he let them flood his mind again, there were images of him reading those books, reading periodicals, reading in bed, reading on his sofa, reading on the staff table, reading whenever he could, since he had been able to. And maybe finding a few novels or anything, really, could make him forget.

He'd paint – no, first he would see if those two imbecilic Gryffindors had left, then he would go and buy paint. Would paint either that night or the next morning, and then, after more food, he would explore his town. What was left of it. And only if that failed, he would ask Mrs Callaghan. It sounded like a good plan. Sounded like something he could occupy his mind with for the next hour and a half when he just stared at the flames in the fire, his stacks of books maybe now reduced by a third, trying to eat the toast (unburned, this time) with marmalade. This was why he had those bouts of cleaning, he understood now.

He simply had nothing to do but fix the house. He had nothing to occupy his time with. Book. Or a magazine. There had been magazines and some paperbacks in the supermarket, he remembered. And he would buy one or two. And if he had to stop twenty times on the way home because carrying the paint would surely be difficult. He didn't care. A book, any book would do. Or maybe not or he would never start painting.

No – he could pace himself. Paint, then book. But buying both at the same time would save him the trouble of yet another trip to the supermarket.

He sat and stared – heard, for the first time since he had gone back to Spinner's End, Mrs Callaghan's television through the wall. He wondered – had he never paid attention, or had she never watched television before. His own, ancient set was history. It had fallen victim to one of his, well, tempers and he had, he remembered, stuck his foot through it. It seemed so far away, and yet, it had only been a little more than a day ago.

Everything seemed far away now. He closed his eyes briefly, and regretted it immediately.

There were more flashes, more images. Lucius and Draco, both visiting them the evening before the verdict. Lucius first, asking him not to tell Draco, then Draco, asking him not to tell Lucius. Both of them wishing him luck and promising help, whichever way his verdict went. He snorted. Now that he was a lowly Muggle, they would probably come to kill him, rather than help him. No, he was unfair and he knew it. They were both well past the stage of killing Muggles as a sport. Draco had never even played the game. Not willingly. And Lucius, Lucius always did what he considered best for his family. Being friends with a lowly Muggle – someone cast out of society, a leper, an outcast – that was not best for the self-proclaimed noble family of Malfoy.

He would, probably, never see them again anyway. He would never see most of them again anyway. More people, more flashed, more images in his mind. Potter of all people had come to see him. Potter and Granger. Probably to gloat, probably to inflict their help on him. Forcing him. Granger begging for his books.

Oh, he could see her now. Clearly. She would have probably run for the books, would have thrown herself over them before he could feed one more to the flames. And maybe, if he had been in a kind mood, which he never was, he would have given them to her. No, who was he kidding. He needed those books to get the fire started in the morning. He couldn't possibly give them away.

Those people, his former colleagues, his former students, all those in Hogsmeade, all those in Diagon Alley – for them, he was dead. He was more than Kissed. He was just non-existent. And now, it was up for him to decide what to do.

The way he saw it, as he watched the flames dancing, yellow and orange and red and glowing, he had a choice. He could mourn the end of his existence and live as a shadow of his former self, grieving for the fact that he had lost what had defined him almost all his life. Or – he could begin again. He could start new, fresh, with neighbours who didn't quite remember him, in a town that didn't seem to remember him and that he didn't seem to remember and with a new purpose in life. Maybe, he thought, if he should choose that possibility, there were new things to learn. Books to read about subjects that he had never thought about before. Muggle philosophy, religion, medicine. No, not medicine. That could get to close to herbs and remedies and potions. And he wanted to stay away from that. Muggle literature. Maybe he could learn new things. If he should choose that option.

But – he wondered, throwing a leg of the table in the flame – what was the use of redoing this house, painting, cutting the grass, destroying all the furniture, if he intended to live like an empty shell of a man? He could as well have left it the way it was. Could have stopped eating and drinking if he had intended to just ignore that he was now a Muggle. But he was constantly hungry. He was hungry and thirsty and he craved, at that moment, chocolate. Rich, creamy chocolate. Something he hadn't eaten in years. He could buy some when he bought the paint. It would help him with his strength on the way back.

Or maybe he could take one of those carts. But that would make him look even more like a homeless person. He would have to think about that. He would have to think.

.

She waited, a bit worried that the steam that rose from the plastic mug of tea she had poured from the Thermos could be seen but there was nothing. It had grown dark soon – it was December after all and she was incredibly glad that she could renew her Warming Charms every few minutes and that she had dressed warmly.

There was light inside Snape's house, coming from a naked light bulb on the ceiling and the familiar flickering of a fire burning. He moved around the house. She could see him. The former spy, so careless that he could be seen. She resolved to waiting another half hour when she could spot him slipping into a coat and the light going out.

It was past ten. Past ten and he was now going out? She knew that positioning herself in front of his house until that hour was fruitless – but it turned out, it wasn't. A second later, she had burned her mouth while gulping down the tea and shrinking the Thermos and shoving it in her bag, he came out of the house, looked around carefully and began walking. Quickly. Not as quickly and not as purposeful as he had during his time at Hogwarts, but quickly nevertheless. She followed him – and again, felt completely wrong at following him. What was she doing? It was dark and she was Disillusioned and he did not want to see her.

Oh, but she had to tell him not to try and break that curse on himself. Not to let anyone break that curse.

She pulled together all her courage and shrugged the Disillusionment Charm off, stuffed her wand in her pocket and cancelled the Silencing Charm she had added for good measure.

"Excuse me," she said slowly and he stopped. Stopped and turned – with a groan. Suddenly, his eyes were on her and even though it was quite dark, the street lamp above them flickering, she knew he could see right inside her. That man didn't need Occlumency to make someone else feel that he could see everything that was going on inside. "I know you don't want to see me and I apologise for coming to see you. I know I have no right but there is a curse on you. It's not just the, erm, the ban from the Ministry. You can't do magic..."

"Miss Granger," he said suddenly. "I think I made myself clear this afternoon that I have absolutely no longing to see you nor your friend Mr Potter." He turned around and walked away.

"Professor Snape, this is serious," she rushed to keep up with him. "Someone put a curse on you. It's ancient. If you try to remove it, you'll die."

"And pray tell, Miss Granger," he stopped abruptly and glared at her, "why would that make a difference to you?"

"Because..." he had begun to move again and she followed him quickly. She couldn't name a reason, or she could..."You should know. Because you shouldn't die. You don't deserve to die."

Snape snorted but said nothing, just kept walking.

"Professor Snape..." she cried and he stopped again. Stopped so quickly that she collided with him, ran against his chest, almost could feel his ribs poking her. His finger was between her eyes. "Miss Granger," said Snape and there was threat in his voice. Nothing to mess with, she knew. "Just because I am not allowed to use magic does not mean that I have no other ways of hurting you if you don't leave me alone." His other hand came up and dangerously close to her neck. "It would be no bother, Miss Granger."

She took a step back, slightly, she admitted that to herself, frightened.

"Go, Miss Granger and leave me be."

She swallowed convulsively, nodded and without looking around, she disapparated.

.


	6. Categories

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Categories /Prototype Theory I _

_When describing categories analytically, most traditions of thought have treated category membership as a digital, all-or-none phenomenon. That is, much work in philosophy, psychology, linguistics, and anthropology assumes that the categories are logical bounded entitites, membership in which is defined by an item's possession of a simple set of criterial features, in which all instances possessing the criterial attributes have a full and equal degree of membership. In contrast, it has recently be argued [...] that some natural categories are analog and must be represented logically in a manner which reflects their analog structure  
(Rosch and Mervis, 1975)_

.

Eleanor Callaghan had seen plenty of things in her time. Born just after the end of the big war, the war to end all wars (which, of course, proved to be completely false), she had followed her husband to England later. Had born five children, had 14 grandchildren and was expecting her first great-grandchild. She didn't see her children much, had all moved away, in the South, one to Scotland. She missed her family, especially after her husband had died but she was much too practical to mourn the fact. She knew she only had to get on a train and she would be welcome, for a few days, in any of their homes. On the other hand, Christmas was soon and that was the time when all of them descended on her. And that was fine. She had her routine. She went to church regularly, met her friends from church, and now, it seemed, she had another task. The poor lad next door. She wasn't sure where he had been but the two young ones had called him Professor. So maybe, he had been a teacher. Most likely. She would ask. The poor lad.

This was the second night, she had been woken by a feral, animal cry. So loud, so heart-wrenching. It sounded, now for the second time, as if the poor lad was suffering. And she was suffering with him. Truly. She was woken, now, twice, in the middle of the night. A bit past two the night before, and now, as she scrambled for her glasses and switched the light, she saw plainly that it was a bit past three. Not that she got much sleep anyway, she was used to sleeping little, but that scream, well, made her feel – bad. For him. This boy had nobody left, poor mother dead in her grave and father somewhere. The girl he had been friendly with when they had been young had died – she had heard. But that was after the Evanses had died and after her sister, that horse-faced girl, had left.

Everyone had left. And now, Severus had returned and she would make it her task to take care of him.

And that started now. Yes, it was 3:14 am in the morning but nobody could fall asleep that quickly after being roused from sleep by something she considered a dreadful, frightening nightmare. At least, it sounded like that. Couldn't be anything else. He sounded horribly frightened, even through the thin wall. She wrapped her thick, burgundy dressing gown around herself and pushed her feet into her warm slippers. She had to try that, even if it was the middle of the night. As quickly as she could with her aching joints, she descended the stairs and put the kettle on immediately. A cup of tea, that always helped. Even if it was the middle of the night. He wouldn't sleep.

No, he truly didn't sleep. She heard him shuffling around next door and she heard something fall.

She briefly wondered whether she should go through the gardens, knock at his back door but that would mean climbing the small wall and she certainly didn't feel up to it. And so, she grabbed two mugs, put them on a tray, added sugar and milk, and the teapot she had filled. She had to try. And nobody could see her crossing the street at that time anyhow.

.

He had been woken by his own, piercing scream. He hated that he had not chance to empty his mind before going to bed. And he hated that he had no chance to fall back asleep. He didn't want to sleep and see the snake again. Didn't want to hear Dumbledore's words. Didn't want to see all those things that came back to haunt him during the night. He could push them back during the day when he kept busy. But not when he was vulnerable during sleep. No choice then. He slowly trudged down to the living room where he had already put the paint and all the things he needed to paint. He would have loved a cup of tea at that moment but he had none. Had forgotten it again. But he had a book. He had a magazine and a newspaper. Something to read. But not now. Now he had walls to paint, even if it would have been simpler if he had a cup of tea to go with it.

Astonishing – truly – the way Mrs Callaghan had just given him one. She had talked, without prejudice. And when had been the last time that had happened?

No sense in thinking about it. He didn't want to think. He absently picked up the screw driver he needed to get the paint tin open and it slipped out of his fingers, clattering on the floor. He grumbled to himself and picked it up, opened the paint tin and stared at the glowing white he had picked. Maybe not the best choice, but it seemed so innocent and so new. Like a new start. It fit.

And there was a difference immediately when the paint roller touched the wall for the first time. When there was a small stripe of glowing white between the yellowish-brown the walls had been.

Severus liked it.

What he didn't like was the sound he just heard. It sounded strangely like a knock. And then another knock. A knock on the door.

"Severus?" he heard from outside. "It's Mrs Callaghan."

His eyes widened. Was this a joke? Why should someone be up at almost half past three in the morning? And how did she know that he was up? Oh – the missing curtains and the way the light shone out on the street. He couldn't even deny that he wasn't up. He was up. The entire street could see him painting. Curtains. He needed curtains.

And before he even know what he was doing, he had gone to the hall and had opened the door a crack. It was her. The old woman. His neighbour. It might be, the thought crossed his mind briefly, that this was not Mrs Callaghan. That this was someone impersonating her. Someone who had come to kill him.

And what if, he thought then. It didn't matter. He had no way of fighting, he had no way of defending himself. He was the proverbial helpless Muggle. He was simple to kill. The ideal victim. Hadn't the Dark Lord always laughed about them? The defenceless Muggles?

Well – now, he was one of them and he looked into the smiling face of his next door neighbour.

"I heard you," she said gently, the lilt in her voice a bit more obvious but she wasn't resorting to the strong Irish accent she had used before.

"Obviously," he drawled, then, his eyes fell on the tray she was carrying in her old hands. The dressing gown she was wearing. Her feet in slippers and somehow he opened the door wider. Something made him open his door for the old woman who had lived there, in that street longer than he had.

"I brought you tea," she explained. "Thought we might share a cup."

Severus was lost for words. What did one answer to something like that? It would have been incredibly rude to merely send her away, it would have been almost irresponsible to send her back home without letting her warm up a bit. And a fire, he had begun.

Oh, but there was no furniture. There were only magical books. Magical books he was burning – he couldn't let her see. But this old woman merely pushed her way through.

"You're painting! In the middle of the night!" she exclaimed as she just stormed into the living room. "And there is no furniture. Are you redecorating?"

He didn't know what to say. Of course it was blatantly obvious that he was 'redecorating'. Or getting rid of all the things that had littered this place.

She pushed the tray in his hands and smiled. "I can't bend like I used to. I assume you have a chair left?"

He shook his head after a moment. "I..."

"Well, sometimes you have to have a change," she smiled.

"Yes," he replied and at her pointing, he put the tray down on the floor and before he even realised what he was doing, he poured two mugs of steaming hot, fragrant tea. As soon as the scent hit his nostrils, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Just what he had needed. Just what he had wanted.

"I'm not curious, now. But..."

Severus looked at her from the place where he was crouching on the floor. Looked into her greenish eyes and was catapulted back into his childhood. The times when his mother had let him play outside on a Sunday and when some of the woman had returned from church, Mrs Callaghan amongst them. They had always given him sweets and had always been nice to him. Or had pitied him. He wasn't sure these days but then – it had been nice.

"You're running away from something?" she asked softly, taking one of the mugs from him.

Was he? No, he had been thrown out. He hadn't run away. He had sworn to himself to accept whatever the wise and almighty Wizengamot had in stall for him. And he had. He hadn't run away. But how could he explain to Mrs Callaghan that the people he had fought so hard for, the people he had almost lost his life for to protect, had only seen him as a murderer, as someone who took joy in torturing Muggles and Muggleborns, someone who had let others get away with using a Torture Curse on students, children in their care? He wanted to say something. This old woman had shown him nothing but kindness. This old woman had come over in the middle of the night to bring him tea. This old woman smiled at him like nobody had smiled at him since his mother – and her mind – had gone somewhere else.

In the end, he settled for a half-lie. "I was let go by my employer," he said simply.

"Oh. Well," she replied. "And you were a teacher?"

"How do you know?" he snapped quickly. Too quickly.

"The two young 'uns said so," she smiled and patted, suddenly, his cheek. He was crouching on the floor still while she, tiny woman that she was, stood there – and had the audacity to pat his cheek. How long since...no use thinking about it.

"Yes, I was a teacher," he said voicelessly and it seemed to be enough for her. It just seemed to be enough. She still patted his cheek, then let the back of her fingers run up and down his cheek. Up and down again.

"God's ways are mysterious, lad. Not knowing what he has in store for you or why you've been sacked. But it's good you came home."

He was shocked and startled and trying hard not to lean into the touch. Someone touched him. Of their own, free will. His cheek was stroked and he wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to...he didn't know what he wanted to do. Maybe throw himself in her arms and cry, maybe push her hand away and throw her out. He didn't know. He just didn't know.

"I want you to be over tomorrow by twelve. I'll make a good steak pie. Your mam always said you loved it. And I don't want to hear no, lad. You need food and my shelf needs to be put up," she said sternly. And her hand was still – on his cheek. "And don't paint now," she added, pointing at the one white stripe on the wall. "There's time enough for this in the morning."

Severus found himself nodding. He just nodded, not knowing what had happened and if that was some kind of trick, some wizard who pretended to be Mrs Callaghan, some wizard who had put a spell on him that found his tongue tied. Some wizard who was nice to him now, in the form of Mrs Callaghan and who would be killing him the next day, cold-bloodedly. He wasn't sure. He didn't care.

Steak pie.

"Take the tea up to bed with you. It will help you sleep," she smiled and bent down as she took her hand off his cheek and pressed, gently, softly, surprisingly, a kiss on the cheek. "Eileen would've wanted me to take care of you. And I will," she whispered in his ear, then straightened. "Bring the tea pot over with you tomorrow."

He found himself nod again. Just nod.

.

It was what was expected of her. It was the right thing to do to invite him for lunch. A good lunch. A lunch that would fill his stomach and a lunch that would make him happy. And that, in turn, made her happy.

He had leaned into the touch. He had closed his eyes ever so briefly and he had enjoyed that she had stroked his cheek. He had even sighed softly when she had kissed his stubbly cheek.

Oh, Eleanor Callaghan had seen many things – but a man, this starved for any kind of affection, she had never seen. And she would do her best to fatten him up.

.

Hermione knew she had been silly. Snape would never hurt her. He had had so many opportunities during school and he never even had hexed her. He had never even tried. He had never done anything. She bet on her life that she could have tried to Sectumsempra him and all he would have done was to use an Expelliarmus. Nothing else. He was no monster and yet, she had done what so many other people in the Wizarding World did.

She had seen him as a monster. A monster he wasn't. He had walked, like a normal person would, in warm clothes and with his hands in his pockets. And she had completely misjudged him. Had done so right from the start. He was nobody who wanted help. He wanted to do this on his own.

But she pledged, in that moment that she was still in her bed, in that moment between wanting a cup of tea and not wanting a cup of tea, that she would support him. In any way that she could without being seen – even if it meant contacting Draco Malfoy – or his father. She felt for this man. This poor, lonely, tired, skinny man.

And she would have to tell Harry to send a letter via Muggle Post. Didn't think he would appreciate getting an owl.

.

The living room was brightly glowing. In immaculate white. It looked new, it looked like nobody had lived in it before. It looked like...he would have to get the carpet out. Maybe wooden floors, then it would be perfect.

Of course he hadn't listened to Mrs Callaghan. Of course he had painted, as quietly as he could. Of course he had finished it.

But of course, he would also get over there for lunch. He would eat with that older, nutty woman. He would eat with that person who had made him say things he had never considered telling anyone. He had no other choice.

But he still had time, he thought, as he sat on the floor, eating toast (not burned) and reading the paper he had bought the day before. Apparently Her Majesty the Queen wasn't happy about one thing or another. He would have to catch up but apparently some former daughter-in-law was doing things and she wasn't happy with it. Couldn't have been Diana – that had even seeped into the Wizarding World that she had died. The other one, maybe. Oh but the Queen made a face like thunder. She was prone to do it, he thought. Couldn't remember anything else – even from when he had been little.

Severus took a sip of water when there was another knock on the door and he hoped, despite himself, that it was Mrs Callaghan with a cup of tea.

He didn't think when he got up, didn't think at all and just opened his door. Opened his door to a face he hadn't expected to see. Not Mrs Callaghan. This face definitely did not belong to Mrs Callaghan.

.


	7. Prototypes

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Prototypes/ Prototype Theory II:_

_While the words_ canary, dove, duck, flamingo, parrot, pelican, robin, swallow _and_ thrush _are all equally co-hyponyms of the superordinate_ bird,_ they are not all considered to be equally good exemplars of the category 'bird'. For many American English speakers, the best exemplars, or the prototype of 'bird' is the_ robin. _The concept of a prototype helps explain the meaning of certain words, like bird, not in terms of component features (e.g. 'has feathers'. 'has wings'), but in terms of resemblance to the clearest exemplar. Thus, even native speakers of English might wonder if _ostrich _and_ penguin _should be hyponyms of_ bird _(technically, they are), but have no trouble deciding about_ sparrow _or_ pigeon. _The last two are much closer to the prototype. _

.

Hermione had just finished her tea when the doorbell rang. The newspaper was still spread over the table and she was still in her jammies and a dressing gown. She frowned, but then, when she heard a familiar voice announcing who was there, she smiled and opened the door.

"Hey Harry," she greeted gently and was met by the most horrible, most terrible facial expression ever. He looked almost close to tears. His eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. There was a vein visible on his temple and he hugged – himself. "Oh dear," she whispered. "Come in." Not even nine in the morning and he looked like he had been spat out by a zombie. Eaten up and spat out.

"Thank you," he replied, chocked up – and before she knew it, her arms were full of Harry. He wasn't crying, but he clung to her closely, his arms almost cracking her ribs and his face buried in her neck.

"What's happened?" asked Hermione in a whisper, rubbing his back.

"Could I have a cup of tea?" he replied instead.

"Sure," she kissed his cheek, "Come in the kitchen."

He nodded but kept one arm closely around her, walked slowly with her, his head on her shoulder. Something bad had happened, otherwise he wouldn't act that way. Something...dreadful. He looked like someone had died. She needed to know. He worried her, the way he clung to her. The way he stayed close to her, even as she put the kettle on again.

"Harry?" she asked slowly. "You worry me a bit."

"I broke up with Ginny," he said suddenly, hugged her fully again and buried his nose in her neck once more.

"What?" she asked – well, shrieked almost.

"I did it," he whispered. Hermione was rendered absolutely speechless. She helped him sit down and a moment later, levitated a mug of tea in front of him.

"I don't...did you have problems?" she asked, knowing in her own mind that it hadn't gone as planned for a while. It wasn't that they were unhappy, but they spent less and less time together. After the war had been no declaration of undying love from Harry, there had been no proposal immediately. They hadn't moved in immediately and sometimes, Hermione had thought, that both of them had wanted it – and none of them ever said so. And then there was the matter of Harry maybe checking out other men.

"Ginny wanted to get married. And I don't know if I love her enough for that. And after seeing Snape yesterday...life's too short to do things you don't want to do, right?"

She sat and stared at her best friend, her mouth agape.

"I mean Ginny's...I like Ginny. But I like you. And then...you know, Charlie said something to me when they came to visit Grimmauld Place. He and that woman of his...what's her name? And he looked at the picture of my parents and remarked how similar my mum was to Ginny. I didn't see it at first, then I did. There were similarities everywhere. And I was scared of that... Then seeing Snape and how quickly they destroyed his life...he was stripped of his magic. And you remember what it was like when nobody believed me that Voldemort had risen again. They are so...turncoats. One day, Snape is the hero, the next he's forced to live as a Muggle. Who tells me that the same thing could not happen to me? They change their mind so quickly. And...do I want to live my life knowing that it's not as good as it could be? That it looks perfect from the outside but that in reality I married a woman who looks like my mother? Only to give the people the dream couple? That I married into the family that I was suppose to marry into? And if I'm suddenly not a hero anymore because people realise that I did not do that much altogether but was merely lucky most of the time? What will happen then? I don't know if you remember but Ginny knew me before she met me. She was in awe of me and I was bloody eleven. I can't be with a woman like that."

He slumped forward and rested his forehead on the table. "And so I went this morning and ended it. I didn't sleep and I couldn't...it was impulsive and she cried and Molly was there and listened to most of the conversation because Ginny insisted I cast no Muffliato. I think she expected a proposal and I finished things with her. And Molly just stared at me when I left and Ginny cried but I couldn't...I don't know. But..."

"Oh Harry," Hermione whispered softly and rushed to his side, enveloping him in her arms. His head pressed against her stomach.

"I hurt her but it doesn't feel wrong. Not like it did before. We had barely seen one another and she expected a proposal, probably. I don't know. I'm so confused."

Hermione ran her fingers through his head, tried to flatten it impulsively, then kissed the top of his head. "Why don't you sleep for a while and we talk when you're up again?"

"I don't wanna go to Grimmauld Place."

"Stay here," she smiled.

"Yeah, okay," he told her stomach and then looked up at him. She was close to asking about his sexuality. Really close but she stopped herself. At least that problem was something to take her mind off Snape.

.

Severus swallowed hard. The roof of his mouth felt incredibly dry, his tongue was stuck somewhere between the dry roof of his mouth and the dry teeth.

"May I come in?" the person standing outside asked, quietly, inconspicuously in Muggle clothes. Quite the change. Had never seen him like that. There were rings around his eyes and his hair was not as squeaky clean as he remembered it. And he remembered quite a lot. He remembered...

Severus cleared his throat, then nodded and stepped aside. He would die, probably. Would die at the end of the wand of –

his godson. Draco Malfoy. In jeans. In jeans and a jumper. His hair had grown since the end of the war and he had never even paid attention to it. He looked quite thin and unhappy. The end of the war had taken a toll on the Malfoys as well, he knew. He had not heard the entire story, simply because he had been busy with his own, but he knew that it had cost Lucius almost all of his money to keep himself out of Azkaban. To keep Narcissa out of Azkaban. To keep Draco out of Azkaban. And now, his godson stood there, in his empty, freshly painted hall.

In all honesty, he had not expected to see him – ever again. He had known that relations to a Muggle like he was now was frowned upon in the circles the Malfoys still moved.

"Severus, I'm..."

Severus arched his eyebrows.

"Sorry for what happened to you," he continued. "But there is more..."

"The curse. Yes, I heard," he answered.

"You heard?"

"Hm," he grunted. "Draco, there's...you should leave."

"I don't want to leave," replied his godson obstinately, pouting like a child. "Do you know what's happening? People say..."

"And since when do I care what people say?" he snapped.

"They're protesting for you," he said feebly.

"Draco!" he found himself shouting. "What are you here for? Don't you see that it's...look around you!"

"Uncle Severus..." he looked utterly miserable.

"Don't call me that," hissed Severus. "I'm not your Uncle anymore."

"You are!" Draco shouted. "I want to help. I could...I don't know, get furniture for you."

"Get out."

"No."

"Get out." His tone grew quiet. The tone he had used during his time as teacher. The tone that had intimidated myriads of Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Slytherins.

"I won't. You can't make me. Here," he waved his wand and a cupboard appeared out of nowhere. "We couldn't help you. I got you into this mess and I want to help."

"Stop that, Draco. This was not how you were brought up. This is not you," he snarled. "And put that wand away."

"I'm sorry," he said and pushed it back into the pocket of his jeans. "I didn't mean to..."

"Get out. I don't know how often I have to repeat myself but get out. And your pity is not wanted here."

"I want to help. Really."

"I don't want, nor need your help. Leave. I have to be somewhere else," replied Severus.

"Where? Can't you let me do something for you? I'm wearing those fucking clothes. And they're damn uncomfortable. And you...you shouldn't be here in this hovel. Mother said you could come live with us for the..."

"Get. Out."

Draco shook his head and Severus wanted to hex the boy badly. Or wring his neck. He should not be there. He should be with his family, with those he had left. But again, memories flooded his brain. The absolute surprise and puzzlement when Lucius had asked him to be godfather – frankly – why should they have chosen him? He had been only a half-blood. He was no family. Lucius was his mentor, yes, friend of sorts. But then, the little boy. Hair so light that he almost seemed bald. And blue eyes back then. He had smelled like nothing he had smelled before when Lucius had put the tiny bundle into his arms and Severus had felt some sort of – protective. Even back then. Had to hide it. The Dark Lord would have not been happy to know that Draco's godfather had been a half-blood, that would have been – well, not so good. Neither for him, nor for Lucius or the boy.

He shook his head. "There is nothing here, Draco. Go home, go get a decent job. You can't be here."

"I want to help."

"What? What do you want to do? This is a Muggle house," he kept his voice down as best as he could. Mrs Callaghan heard everything. "Go home."

Draco rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at Severus again before he leaned against the wall and slowly slid down the wall. "Nothing's like it used to be."

Severus groaned. He did not want to hear this. He did not. He wanted to boy out of his house. He wanted to be alone. Wanted to forget that he was a wizard. Had been a wizard.

"Uncle Severus, Father will have to go find a job."

"Tragic," he sneered.

"He never had to work. I'm not sure he knows how to. I can't go to Wizarding College because there is no money. We sold stuff from the house. Mother sold Grandmother's brooch and Great-Grandmother's ring. Father sold all but one house elf. There is nothing anymore. I don't know what to do and they don't talk to me. They always send me out of the room as if I were twelve fucking years old. I have no friends left and then I lost you," the boy was fighting tears, Severus could see but he would not allow himself to feel pity.

"One house elf? No money? Look around you, Draco. This is all I have. All that is left."

"I just want someone to talk to . I want to help as good as I can," he whispered as he hid his face behind his hands. "It won't be much but I could just..."

"Don't degrade yourself. Go home, Draco. Don't come here again."

Draco shook his head, then stood up slowly and tiredly. "I want to come back. I will come back."

Severus shook his head as well. "No, Draco. I'm not a part of your world anymore."

"But I want to be a part of your world!" the boy shouted loudly.

.

There was shouting next door. Severus was arguing with another man. Couldn't be that Severus was gay, could it? No, she could usually spot that from a mile away. But he was still fighting with someone and that couldn't be good. Besides, Eleanor Callaghan was a terribly curious person and as she had pledged to support Severus, help him, take care of him, she did not like someone fighting with him. He was depressed enough as it was.

The steak pie was almost done and he had promised to come over. And if there was someone over, fighting with him, she would just remind him that she expected him. It was simple, really. Nobody lived in the house next to her. It was only her and Severus there and as she wiped her hands on her apron, she stepped outside on her little patio and took a deep breath.

"Severus!" she called. "Lunch's ready." He would hear her. He was constantly airing the old house and after years of neglect, it was probably necessary and so, his door stood open a little. "Severus!" she called again and waited. Waited a little more. She huffed loudly. That boy needed a firm hand. He needed food and he knew where to get it. He had to know that she expected him to be on time though. And she was terribly curious. She was just about to shout for the third time, when a blonde boy stuck his head out of the door.

"And you are?" she asked, surprised. He was about the same age the two other children had been the day before. But he didn't look one bit like Severus. Silvery blonde hair, grey eyes and a rather posh looking face.

"I'm Draco Malfoy. I'm Severus Snape's godson," he said, tired eyes looking at her. Something, she thought, had happened. The two children she had seen the day before had not looked happy, and that boy looked even unhappier. And he looked like he needed a good serving of steak pie as well. Wherever Severus had been, whatever he had done, it had not been healthy.

"Godson, now. Interesting. Could you kindly tell your...ah Severus, there you are. Lunch's ready and why don't you bring your godson with you? Draco Malfoy? Are you French?"

.


	8. Structural Ambiguity

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Structural Ambiguity:_

_Two different concepts can be expressed in the same surface structure form: "Annie had an umbrella and whacked a man with it'; and on the other hand, 'Annie whacked a man and the man happened to be carrying in umbrella.' Both of these can be expressed by the following_: Annie whacked a man with an umbrella._ This sentence is structurally ambigious. It has two different underlying interpretations which would be represented differently in the deep structure.  
Groucho Marx knew how to have fun with structural ambiguity. In the film 'Animal Crackers', he first says:_ One morning I shot an elephant in my pyjamas,_ then follows it with_ How he got into my pyjamas I'll never know._ In the non-funny interpretation, the structural unit_ in my pyjamas_ is an addition, attached to the end of the structural unit _I once shot an elephant._ In the alternative (ho, ho) interpretation, the structural unit_ an elephant in my pyjamas_ is a necessary internal part of structure that would otherwise be incomplete,_ I once shot...  
_Phrases can also be structurally ambigious, as when you come across an expression like_ old men and women._ The underlying interpretation can by either_ old men _plus_ old women _or_ old men _plus_ women_ (no age specified). The grammar will have to be capable of showing the structural distinction between these underlying representations. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

The woman had a knack. Had a knack for reducing him to feeling like a boy and what was worse, a boy that listened and did as he was told. She had pushed plates in his hands and had told him to set the table. And he had done it. Didn't exactly know why but he had. And a moment later, Draco had followed him, cutlery in his hands. At least, he had thought, he wasn't alone in being utterly embarrassed by an old woman.

He could feel Draco's questioning glances. He could almost hear him thinking. He knew the boy wanted to ask and ask and ask and wanted answers. But he was in no position to give them. And really, what was so difficult to understand? He had been invited to a Saturday lunch with his neighbour. Who happened to be Irish and old and whose steak pie smelled heavenly. But Draco had probably never been in a Muggle house, apart from the one he had just left – Severus's house. Had probably never eaten food that hadn't been prepared by an house elf.

And for the first time since he had come back to Spinner's End, no, for the first time since the Aurors had pulled him from St Mungo's, no, for the first time since he had lain dying in the Shrieking Shack, he felt some sort of mirth inside himself. Some sort of glee. Oh, he wasn't happy that Draco was miserable. Not at all, for that, he liked the boy too much, but to being able to show him something new. Something simple, something that was not magical and at the same time, very magical. Steak pie in the house of an old woman who had used her two hands to make it. And oven that was run by electricity (or maybe, he hadn't taken a closer look), by gas or even fire. And, as he remembered the days when he had been a boy, and Mrs Callaghan's strict, Irish Roman Catholicism, a meal that would be not begin until they had said grace. Draco was in for a bigger shock, he knew, than he had been upon entering Snape's own, miserable little house.

"Take a seat, lads," she yelled from the kitchen and Severus, with one eyebrow arched up high, gestured for Draco to sit.

"You will behave," he hissed. "And keep the wand away."

The blond boy nodded silently. He was probably dumbstruck – his own fault, really, considering Severus had told him multiple times to get out of his house. Multiple times not to go and see who was shouting for him. And now the boy would be stuck there, inside this old-fashioned, quaint Muggle house, eating lunch with an old Irish Muggle and – well, him. And yet, Draco still didn't dare to utter a single syllable. Didn't dare to say a single word when Mrs Callaghan put the pie on the table, when she started handing out servings, when she sat down herself (with a groan) smiled.

"Severus, if you would?" she asked and Severus was glad in that moment, that there was no Occlumency hindering his way to his memories.

He nodded his consent and, as he remembered, bowed his head a little, his hands clasped and spoke softly. "Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen," echoed Mrs Callaghan and Severus did not truly dare to look up at Draco. This sort of thing had probably never happened to him. He had probably never seen it done before. "Tuck in, boys," said Mrs Callaghan then gently.

Severus did. The smell was like none other. It smelled like long buried memories of his mother, like the home he had before he had started showing signs of magic and after it, when his Father had not been home and before he had left, and as he slowly brought the fork up to his mouth, it looked like exactly that – then tasted exactly like that.

He glanced at the boy who seemed – well, not too changed altogether. It was probably acceptable for him to offer his help to a fallen hero in return of having someone to listen to – but it was something completely different to be stuck with a Muggle, having to eat Muggle food, having to listen to a prayer before a meal.

But then, Severus thought, something strange happened. Mrs Callaghan paused in her eating and looked sternly at Draco. "Eat, boy. I haven't made it to be stared at. It's good and you certainly could use an extra pound or two. Look at your godfather, he likes it," she said insistently and a split second later, as if he had been confounded, he took a forkful, chewed, swallowed and then – smiled. Smiled so brightly. Severus clearly did not want to wade too deep into marshes of memories, but the last time he could clearly remember Draco smiling like that had been before the boy had started Hogwarts. Before Lucius had begun to infiltrate him again and again with the Malfoy superiority. When he had been considered too young to understand it.

He took another forkful, then another. And another. "It tastes very good," he said, his mouth not quite empty, but not full either.

"It certainly does," Mrs Callaghan replied with a laugh. "I can give you my recipe and your mam, or wife can do it. Or you can do it yerself. I hear that some men have started cooking. Not normal, if you ask me and look at this one there. He would still be dining on burned beans on toast."

Draco threw another startled glance at him and he felt, suddenly, as if he should defend himself. "They were not always burned," he said softly.

She chuckled good naturedly and reached across the table to pat his arm. "You know I didn't mean it."

It was utterly bizarre. Surreal. He had expected many things to happen in his life – but this? This meal there at that table? Never in his wildest dreams.

"It's excellent, Mrs Callaghan," he said a moment later, his plate half-cleared.

The woman positively beamed. "Then eat, eat. There's plenty. And you too, Draco. Draco is your name, yes?"

Draco Malfoy nodded slowly, his mouth full of steak pie, his own plate emptier than Severus's.

"Your parents were ho-bo-hippies then?" she asked curious and Severus, oh Severus was as close to laughter as he hadn't been in years. Not since the old man had...no, he wouldn't spoil that moment by thinking about Albus Dumbledore. There had been hippies, back when he was a child and his memory provided him with the images of their clothing, their hair (Lucius's certainly was long enough) and his imagination provided the rest. His chest constricted and there was a short, tiny bark of laughter.

She paid him no mind, her eyes were fixed on Draco who in turn, looked at Severus for help – but his chest was tight and there was a warm, spreading feeling coming from his stomach. No doubt induced by the steak pie. But he was warm and even though he was still hungry, he didn't feel the eternal starvation he had in the past days.

Instead, he swallowed the rest of the laughter he felt inside of him and cleared his throat. "Draco's mother is rather fond of stars and constellations, and she named him after one of them."

"Oh I see," she smiled. "I bet you had a tough time at school with that name," she nodded towards Severus. "He did, I remember."

Draco still looked around helplessly and the warm feeling inside of Severus seemed to vanish, seemed to ease, seemed to fade.

"He was at one of those schools," he answered instead, his voice taking on the tone he remembered from the time he had been a boy. Children of hippie parents, send to 'wholesome schools'.

"Ah well. And now you've come to visit your godfather? I daresay he could use your help over there. It'll be a long way home from Ikea with all the furniture."

"Ikea?" Draco found his voice again. "Who's Ikea?"

.

Hermione knocked carefully on the door to the guest room. "Harry?" she asked softly. She had bought cakes and toast and scones and she had made tea. Get something in his stomach.

"Come in," Harry said and she opened the door a crack. He smiled sadly. "There was paper and a pen in the desk and I..."

"You're writing to Ginny?"

He shook his head. "Snape."

"Snape? Oh, right. Erm. Yes. Harry...maybe an owl is not a good idea," she began, unsure how well he would take it if she told him that she had, well, seen Snape. And had talked to him.

"I thought so. I mean my Uncle went bonkers whenever he saw an owl. Even if it was on the telly. He made whoever had the remote switch channels whenever there was one. Even if it was a bloody documentary."

She snorted. "Did you talk to them again?"

"Nah, well, briefly. I mean I had to know where Snape lives and talked to Dudley. He told me all about this girl he met when they were in hiding and he's thinking of moving to Wales to be with her. He was blushing when he talked about her. Uncle Vernon bolted when he saw me and I think my aunt wanted to strangle me."

"How lovely," she replied sarcastically. "But Dudley...that's a different tune."

"I think the girl is a witch," he smirked. "Anyway, since I have the address, I thought it might be better if I mailed it the regular way."

"I think there are stamps in the kitchen somewhere."

Harry nodded slowly, scribbling something else on the piece of paper.

"And?" Hermione asked impatiently. She was curious. Very, very curious.

"And what? I tell him all about the curse and that the Auror Department is sort of working on finding out who is it, that we now know that it couldn't have been Malfoy. Kingsley owled me and told me all three of them had an alibi. I'm just telling him about the curse and that I'm sorry and if there is something I can do..."

"Harry, I didn't mean that," she stopped him.

"Oh, Ginny?"

"Yep, Ginny."

He let out a long, deep sigh. "I feel no different. Honestly, 'Mione. I adored that she adored me. But I came to the conclusion, that I don't adore her enough to spend my life with her. To lie to her. I don't...Hermione, really. I'd hate to lose the Weasleys but haven't you noticed that it's already not the way it used to be?"

"Hm. Since Ron and I didn't work out."

"Yes. And she wants other things in life than I do. And seriously, I know you suggested it to her, but what was the use of making me jealous? Or trying to make me jealous?"

"I never told her that. I told her to go look for other options. Be open to someone else. I never told her to go and make you jealous."

"I know," he sighed. "But I think she saw it that way. I don't want to be looked at as the boy-who-lived for the rest of my life. And she would remind me. She wanted to be the wife-of-the-boy-who-lived. And she failed to notice that I wasn't a boy anymore."

"Harry, aren't you a bit harsh?"

"No, I'm not harsh. I just...want to be out of that. You haven't been there as much as I was, but there were always some talk of me being super-great and of me being a saviour and all that rot. I'm not and you know it. It wasn't blatantly obvious and it wasn't glaring me in the face...but there was always some underlying sort of, _well, we have a celebrity in the family thing_. And I love the Weasleys. I love Molly and Arthur and they are great people but I don't want to be their son-in-law."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't feel right," he huffed, glaring slightly angrily at her. "I can't help it. We haven't been...dear God, Hermione, do I have to spell it out for you? We haven't had sex in months."

"Is it because you like men more?" she asked, immediately clapping her hands before her mouth, wishing she could take the words back, push them back.

He groaned. "No. Because once I realised that she looked like my mother, I couldn't. Imagine you being with a man who bears a striking resemblance with your father."

"Oh," she nodded. "I see."

"This felt sick. In the end, after Charlie mentioned it, it felt bloody sick to be touching her. I'm not sick. And I'm afraid I was only looking for a..."

"Substitute mother," she nodded again. "Harry, I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "It's okay. It took me a while to figure it out myself. Now, could I have maybe an envelope and a stamp?"

She nodded, quite aware that he had not – clearly – answered her question about men.

.

He felt – sated. His stomach was full. He wasn't thirsty. He wasn't cold. Even back in his own home, in front of the fire, with Draco, finally, out of his house (and a promise that he would return should he go to Ikea...Mrs Callaghan had a hard time explaining that one and he had a hard time explaining why Draco hadn't known – not that she noticed that he hadn't known). Mrs Callaghan, who had told him to call her Eleanor as she had put the remaining steak pie in a plastic box for him to take home, had smelled, instinctively, that something had been off and he suspected that she suspected that they had lived in a sort of coven. Some sort of sect. Nothing he couldn't live with, especially when she had offered to show him the book shop and the other supermarket.

Maybe it wasn't too bad altogether to have a neighbour like that. Maybe, he thought, he could get used to her and to the warm, full feeling in his stomach that she had brought on with her steak pie.

He could really get used to it, he thought as he curled into a ball in front of his fire for a food-induced afternoon nap.

.


	9. The Cooperative Principle

_**The usual disclaimers apply.  
**_

_**.**_

_._

_The cooperative principle:_

_We might formulate a rough general principle which participants will be expected (ceteribus paribus) to observe, namely: Make your conversational contribution such as is required, at the stage at which it occurs, by the accepted purpose or direction of the talk exchange in which you are engaged. _

(Grice, 1975)

.

Draco rubbed his eyes. Not because he had slept unwell the night before and due to that, they were gritty, but because he still could not believe what he had just witnessed. Even the breath of fresh air, the rush of fresh air induced by Apparition had not made him believe it more. He had, for all intents and purposes, had lunch, with his godfather and a woman who had introduced herself as Eleanor Callaghan. An Irish woman who spoke with great gentleness and had smoothed his hair down and had run the back of her fingers down his cheek before she had said good bye to him. And oddly enough, he didn't feel repulsed by it. Her hand had been wrinkled but warm. Gentle. Very, very gentle. And the food he had been given, the food he had stuffed himself with had been exceptionally good.

If, Draco thought, he had been introduced to a woman like this, a simple Muggle, he would have never believed anyone superior to her. She hadn't raised her voice, she hadn't threatened, she had merely asked them to eat. She had made Severus say the strangest thing before their meal and then she had told them to eat. Nothing more. And both of them had done it. Had done exactly what she had asked him to do. And when Mrs Callaghan had told him to come see her again soon, and had, at the same time, run the back of her fingers down his cheek, what else could he do but say yes? And he wanted to. He wanted more meals like that, even though he felt he had made a complete an utter fool of himself there.

Ikea was no person but a place where they sold furniture. And since his godfather had no furniture left, Mrs Callaghan had, rightly, drawn the conclusion that they should get some. And he would. He would help him. Even if he had absolutely no money left apart from the fifty galleons in his Gringotts account. And if he had to use those fifty Galleons to help his godfather buy furniture. He would go there again.

But first, he would have to do something else.

The Manor stood, forbidden and gloomy in front of him and he was hesitant to open the doors. How different this was from little house they had shared that meal in. And Severus's house. There had been warmth, and Mrs Callaghan kindness personified. She had never met him before and had invited him to her house for a meal. Him. Had just invited him. Without prejudice. Him, the marked one. Had eaten with her. A Muggle. And his godfather, another marked one. On the same table with a Muggle. Had never thought that would happen. Had never thought that was possible.

But she was kinder, gentler, nicer than anyone else he had ever known in the Wizarding World. She had just accepted him and Severus without any qualms. She had talked to them, had let him talk (not that he had said much), and had let Severus talk. And she had invited him back.

If she knew who he was...but she didn't care. To her, he was just the boy with the strange name. Apparently named by parents who were hippos or hippies or heyppies. He would have to ask his father what that meant – Severus had not been able to answer it. Draco had seen his godfather, for the first time ever, close to laughing out loud. Had never seen him this relaxed, or this content as he had looked when he had eaten the second – and then the third helping of that steak pie.

The recipe was in his pocket. The back pocket of his jeans, uncomfortable though they were. He would try and give this to the remaining, grouchy house elf, aptly named Smiley, but Draco doubted she would cook it. She stuck to her own recipes and her food, compared to that of Mrs Callaghan, tasted like...paper-mâché. He could still taste the pie in his mouth and he found himself running his tongue along his teeth to catch more of it. He wanted to go back. Wanted to find out if she cooked other things. Wanted to know if other things made him this content.

This meal, this simple meal, served on a plate that was a bit chipped, had made him more content than anything else he could remember. He had enjoyed it. He had enjoyed being with Severus and his godfather had even, briefly, smiled at him. That hadn't happened in a while either. He closed his eyes and focused on the memory of his godfather's smile and the taste of the steak pie and opened the door. He would have to talk to his parents.

.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I've been thinking...

x

Mum and Dad,

Harry broke up with Ginny...

x

This house is empty even though Harry stayed overnight. He suggested...

x

Mum and Dad,

I'm thinking of renting the house but I can't without your consent. It's just that Harry asked me to move in with him and I can't...

x

I'm lonely.

x

If I live with Harry, I won't be lonely.

x

If I don't tell you about renting the house, and you come back, I have a problem. If I tell you about renting the house, you'll ask if I'm with Harry, which I'm not. I don't want to tell you. I don't know you anymore.

x

Dear Mum and Dad,

London is so much livelier and I could stay with Harry. I want to move in with Harry. He's good company and he's always here for me. I can't stand that silence anymore.

x

I hate that silence.

Even the bloody postman puts the post in quietly.

x

Dear Mum and Dad,

I just want to let you know, that I will move in with Harry. No, we're not together but we thought we'd throw our things together and run one household instead of two. It's much more efficient that way and will cost less. I could rent the house, if you like, or could even try and sell it. It's up to you, really, but it's much more practical for me to live at Grimmauld Place. There is a large library and I will find all the books I need for my NEWTs there without having to go to Hogwarts every time. You should know the address, and if not, I've written it on the envelope, as always.

I hope you are well.

Your daughter,

Hermione.

.

Draco swallowed hard as he stepped into the former drawing room. Now it was the only room in the house that was constantly heated, and the only room in which there was a fire blazing. He didn't quite understand his father's reluctance to sell the property – but on the other hand, he understood that there were still those people who would not appreciate the place as it was. Grand, beautiful on the outside, huge. There were those, he understood, who would want to turn this into a site. _This is where the Dark Lord sat. This is where the Dark Lord killed_...And then, he could understand his father's reluctance.

His father sat hunched over a chessboard, playing with himself and his mother sat, quietly reading. On the outside, just like the Manor, they looked very much like the aristocratic couple still. But he knew that soon, everyone would see what it had cost them.

He hadn't changed his clothes. Almost as a rebellion, he wore the Muggle clothing and as he closed the door with a louder than necessary click, his mother looked up and her eyes widened a fraction.

Draco coughed. "I went to see my godfather today," he said, his voice steadier than he thought it would sound.

"Severus?" his father looked up from the chessboard, his forehead lined deeply. "Hence your clothing," he added.

"Hence my clothing. I went to see him and..."

"And?" his mother asked, gently. This was a different kind of gentle from Mrs Callaghan. Gentle, yes, but not openly so. Not openly affectionate as the old woman had been. He couldn't even remember the last time he had been just touched like this by his mother. Or his father for that matter. Not if there weren't any special circumstances.

"He is..." he began and felt lost for words. How had he been? Judging by when he had seen him first – not well. Judging by how he acted during the meal and afterwards – alright. "He doesn't have any furniture."

"No furniture," Narcissa asked. "But when I was there...he does live there, does he not?"

Draco nodded and pushed his hands deep inside his back pockets, fumbling with the piece of paper on which Mrs Callaghan had written the recipe.

"Does he know about the curse?" his father asked.

"I told him, yes. He doesn't care, Father. He says he can't do magic anyhow anymore."

"Cissy, we have to get him out from there. There might still be a..."

"No," Draco interrupted. "He doesn't want to. I asked him to come and live with us but he doesn't want to. He seems almost content." He fibbed and he knew it. Or half-fibbed.

"He can't be," said his mother. "It was a hovel."

"It's small and there is not furniture yet but he said he would go to Ikea and get some..."

"What is Ikea?" asked his father.

"A shop where you can buy furniture for little money. Swedish, I think," Draco repeated exactly what Mrs Callaghan had said.

"But he can't...Lucius, do something," his mother stood up and put her hands on his father's shoulders as she bent forward slightly, her long hair obscuring Draco's view as she whispered something in his ear. He heard murmuring but couldn't make out any words and only saw his father as he nodded. "I shall," he said then, after a moment.

"Draco, would you please leave us alone?" His father stood up, kissed his mother on the cheek and led Draco out of the drawing room – anger welling in the young man yet again for being treated like a child.

.

It was truly easy to pack if you had a little wooden stick with a magical core to aid you. Hermione's things were in boxes and those Featherlightened and Shrunk within minutes. She did not belong to this house anymore and she wondered what had made her come back there in the first place. Maybe some sort of sentimentality, thinking that after all the wounds war had left, after all the horrid months when nobody knew whether they could get alive, she could get back some sense of normality, resorting to being the child.

But in order to be a child again, Hermione would have needed parents. And parents who were there. And hers, weren't. And so the house remained just that – a house, empty and while full of memories, they didn't even seem to be hers. She had to leave the empty house that was too big for her, too empty, too full of memories that didn't seem to be hers. Being with Harry would be beneficial. Kreacher was there to provide them with meals, the library was full of books she longed to read, or read again, there would be talks in the evening, and not just mute staring at texts, practising wand waving movements or if desperation overcame her – the telly. It would be good. It would give them both a chance to calm down after the whirlwind of trials and proceeding war.

No, Hermione wasn't unhappy to be leaving her old home which wasn't her home now. Not like this. She would be with Harry – and would maybe even figure out whether he was fishing on this, or that, side of the river. Not that she minded either way and his explanations about why he had broken up with Ginny had seemed sound.

But she couldn't help feeling curious – it was in her blood. As she was very curious about one Severus Snape. But that could wait – until, well, until Harry had either received a reply, or not.

More or less elated, she stepped into Grimmauld Place, relieved that Sirius's mother was finally shut up, relieved that she was now living with someone who liked her.

.

It was only the next morning when Severus woke up in his bed, that he realised two things.

One – he had in at least ten years not slept this amazingly.

Two – he enjoyed someone's company like Mrs Callaghan's – Eleanor's – more than he ever dared possible.

He wasn't sure whether those two were linked. Whether the food and the company he had enjoyed during his lunch and after his nap, when she had brought him another cup of tea in the garden as he had pushed the mowed of grass to the side and into a plastic bag she handed him then, after the cup of tea, over the small wall. She was just there, she talked, she asked, she accepted his answers. She accepted his silences and when there was one that was awkward, she filled it. Just filled it. She was nosy, yes, but it wasn't exactly pushing him. She was there and watched him work, mentioned the shelf again and he would probably have to go over there, repay her for the tea.

But of course, she beat him to it again. There was a knock on his door, and he could see from his window upstairs that it was her, not anyone else. With anyone else, he would have ignored it but as it was her, with another steaming mug of tea in her hands, he knocked against the window from the inside and as she looked up, he nodded. Quickly, he pulled on his jeans and threw a shirt on before rushing down the stairs. He wasn't sure why he was rushing but it didn't feel right to leave her standing there.

"Good morning, Severus," she smiled brightly, then, as her eyes looked him up and down, she frowned. "You can't wear that", she said disapprovingly.

He looked down at himself. Those were still clean clothes. Not freshly washed but he hadn't quite gotten around to the washing machine yet.

"You can't go to mass like that," she said sternly. "Don't you have a suit?"

Oh. No. He couldn't possibly. He had just woken up and it just didn't feel right. "Mrs Cal..."

"Eleanor," Mrs Callaghan said sternly. "I told you."

"Eleanor, I can't go to mass. I'm sorry."

She huffed, and pushed the tea in her hand. "Fine, I'll let it slide this week. But this discussion is far from over," she said, again the sternness in her voice and in her face. "And when I come back, I want you to come over. I have something for you. And Sunday lunch."

He nodded, almost obediently. But even if he felt she was invading his privacy, which she clearly was, he wasn't sure he minded – if it came with tea. He would have to find the shop she had mentioned and buy some for himself. And for her. And a new kettle and mugs. He wasn't heartless and the silence in the last months had been painful almost. And despite the fact that he had lived most of his live in more or less silence, he now wondered if it had always been that good. Should he have ignored Minerva every time she had invited him for a game of chess? Should he had engaged in lively conversation with Pomona Sprout?

No. He was who he was. And so far, Eleanor Callaghan had only done what she considered best for him. There was nothing in it for herself – apart from the shelf he was supposed to put up. He didn't know how to put up a shelf. Absolutely no idea. He only knew how to destroy furniture. But it couldn't be that difficult.

He honestly needed a kettle and a mug but in the meantime, he enjoyed her cup of tea, looking out of the window. It was a dreary day and he was beginning to get cold and hungry.

Well, he would see when she returned from mass (what was she thinking wanting him to go?) and he would go over there. He had seen books there – maybe he could borrow one, seeing that he had read the magazine cover to cover, the newspaper cover to cover and was almost through with the book he had bought. He knew now that the US president had done something which might, or might not have been sex, he knew that there was something going on in Iraq, something he would have to read up on. And on the American presidents definition of sex. Clearly. He knew continental Europe was about to get a brandnew, common currency but that Britain, as always, luckily, kept out of it.

But now, he needed more and maybe, Mrs Callaghan – Eleanor – was willing to lend him some. He was almost certain she would.

As he stood, drinking his tea and then sat on the floor (furniture – needed), and read the book, he managed to stop his thoughts. Managed to focus on what he was reading until he heard people outside and slowly got up, still in his jeans and the shirt, and saw her, Eleanor, waving good bye to a few other, older women and as if on cue, her eyes fell on his window and on him as he stood there and she smiled and nodded her head a little towards her house.

Severus nodded back, solemnly, and left his house, not knowing that Mrs Callaghan had very specific plans for him that day.

.


	10. Minimal Pairs and Sets

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_Minimal pairs and sets_

_Phonemic distinction in a language can be tested via pairs and sets of words. When two words such as_ pat _and_ bat _are identical in form except for a contrast in one phoneme, occurring in the same position, the two words are described as a minimal pair. More accurately, they would be classified as a minimal pair in the Phonology of English. (Arabic does not have this contrast between the two sounds.) Other examples of English minimal pairs are _fan – van, bet – bat, site – side. _Such pairs have been used frequently in tests of English as a second language to determine non-native speakers' ability to understand the contrast in meaning resulting from the minimal sound contrast. When a group of words can be differentiated, each one from the others, by changing one phoneme (always in the same position), then we have a minimal set. Thus, a minimal set based on the vowel phonemes of English would include_ feat, fit, fat, fate, fought, foot, _and one based on consonants could have_ big, pig, rig, fig, dig, wig.

(Yule, 1985)

.

She ushered him in with a smile on her face, a gleaming smile, some sort of mischievous glint in her pale, watery green eyes. "I've found something for you," she told him, almost impishly and as she made him sit down on the old chair at the kitchen table and put a large box on the table.

"All of that belonged to Stephen," explained Mrs Callaghan – Eleanor. "But now that he's living in London and has a family of his own, he wouldn't want this anymore."

She pulled an old, black, worn leather jacket from the box and handed it to him with a beaming grin. "He was just as thin as you are but with that woman of his, he's gone bloody round," she chuckled. "Try it on."

He didn't know what to say and he wasn't sure what was appropriate but the leather jacket – it looked nice. Old and worn but – nice. The kind of thing you could wear and wear and wear and it would never get cold in it and you'd always be – protected – in it. A different kind of armour from what he had been wearing back when he had been a wizard, but an armour, nevertheless. A shield.

She, in the meantime, rolled her eyes, walked around the table, the jacket in her hands and without further ado, lifted his arm, then the other, and put it on him.

"You'd think I was done dressing children," she muttered, good-naturedly, under her breath. "There," she added a moment later, "fits wonderfully."

Severus cleared his throat. This woman made him stumble in situation after situation after situation in which he was rendered absolutely speechless. In the Wizarding World he remembered, there was no charity, there was no such thing as giving someone your old clothes. It might have been different in another wizard's world, but in his, it was tit for tat, an eye for an eye, nothing like this gentle generosity of this woman.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Ah, be quiet," she ran a hand through his hair, "I'm happy to be rid of the boxes," she continued, resting her old, wrinkled, liver-spotted hands with the plain, gold wedding ring on his leather-clad shoulders but she suddenly straightened, grabbed his chin and looked deeply into his eyes.

"There are books, too. From when Stephen went to college. You might have them too. And some more. But...you get all the clothes and all the books only under one condition."

Well – that much for charity. It was always an eye for an eye, tit for tat. That he knew. That he could work with. That he understood.

"What condition?" he asked suspiciously, shrugging off the leather jacket.

.

Hermione grinned and handed Harry the sports section of the Daily Prophet and kept the rest of herself. It was a joke, since she knew that while he was interested in Quidditch, he didn't much care about the rest of Wizarding sports and she didn't like the paper at all. But he understood. She had made breakfast for him, and had greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, a 'good morning, darling', and had flitted around him like an over-fussing wife. He had grinned, she had grinned and somehow, only this little thing made her feel better. Pretending to be an old married couple. He smiled at her over the top of the paper and sighed.

"I'm happy you're here," whispered Harry.

"I'm happy I'm here," she whispered back and smiled.

"Do you want to do something today?"

"Like what?" she asked.

"Dunno. But..." he was hesitant.

"But what?" Hermione arched her eyebrows. He had something up his sleeve. He had a plan. He wanted to go somewhere, specifically. He wanted to...

"I, erm..., thing is, that...it's weird, really, but..."

"Harry," she groaned. "Spit it out."

"The Weasleys invited me. Well, us."

"What?"

"They invited us. Arthur wrote an owl. And he said that Ginny was alright and that I wouldn't vanish from their family just because...well, because I messed it up with her but I can't go, can I? I don't..it's so soon."

Hermione sighed. "Are you asking because...you want to go and want me to go with you? Or asking my opinion?"

"Your opinion, please," he flicked his wand and their teacups filled with more tea. She took a sip (not quite happy with the taste of the conjured tea but it was alright) and scratched her left eyebrow (which needed plugging – the right one as well). She thought. She had no longing to see the Weasleys. And she didn't honestly think that Harry was ready to go there already. There hadn't been time between breaking up and now. Two days and just the night before, they had curled up on the couch together, well, her feet in his lap, actually, and they had talked about their time together, all of them. Hermione, Harry, Ron. And Neville, Ginny, Luna, the good times at school, the not so good times not at school. It had been therapeutic, she had thought. It had been nice to talk about it with someone whom she trusted, with someone who had been there with her. Talked about how Ron had just gone and how it had changed – a little – their relationship without him there. Had talked about what had happened then, how it had been when Harry had been having his 'dead moment' as they called it.

It was strange, both of them had thought, how much they had gone through together – and that in the end, nothing had worked out the way they had thought it would. She wasn't with Ron (mutual decision), he wasn't with Ginny (his decision). There had been no happy ever after. There was work to be done, they still tried to find their way. She still tried to find her way and Harry was struggling with Auror training – which would be even weirder now with him and Ginny broken up and Ron in training with him.

And Harry had even mentioned that the night before, after the third Silvergin Martini (one of Harry's inventions. He tried mixing Wizarding Liquor with Muggle Liquor and that made great cocktails in her opinion – but very potent). Had mentioned that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the fact that he had to work with Ron – and knowing his explosive, jealous temper fits.

"I think we should go somewhere else. The zoo, or Oxford Street, get some Muggle clothes, or...the National Gallery. Or somewhere. But the Weasleys? It's too early, if you ask me. I don't think you want to see Ginny like this..."

"I thought so. But how do I tell them nicely? I don't..."

"Write an owl to Arthur. Tell him you had other plans. And we'll go somewhere and take your minds off things. And mine for that matter."

"Well, I do need clothes..." he smiled. "Thanks.

.

He had succumbed rather easily. Eleanor hadn't expected it to be so easy. On one condition that he set himself. And that condition was – not too short. She could do that. And she didn't honestly think that very short sides and longer top would suit him. No, she just cut the long tresses, the too long, untidy looking hair and left it long enough to be nicely ruffled if she felt like it.

And so, her neighbour, the boy she had known since he had been born, basically, but whom she hadn't seen in so many years, the boy who had grown into a sad, lonely man, sat on a chair in her kitchen, one of her towels around his shoulders, holding very still as soon as she was close to his ears, trusting her enough to cut off parts of his hair – in exchange for a leather jacket, a few old jeans, a few old shirts, a heavy winter coat that Stephen had never liked and that Mark had liked even less and that Thomas wouldn't fit into, and a few textbooks that Stephen had left, a few novels that Mary had read, a few of Kathleen's. A box full of things from her children and she felt bad that she gave him those discarded things. He deserved new stuff, new clothes but money was scarce and it was Christmas soon. All the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren wanted at least a little present. And Severus would get something new for Christmas.

But she smiled as she remembered how his eyes had gleamed upon especially the textbooks. How he had almost smiled then. Eileen had been the same. She had been so happy when she was surrounded by books, the little one on her hip, a book in her hand, talking over the wall in the garden. No need to feel sad for long dead people. They were in a better place.

She cut off a little more hair, testing whether it was even and patted his shoulders. "Done. See if you like it," she whispered gently in his ear, kissing his cheek (as she had taken on doing – just because he always seemed to lean into her touch). Eleanor gestured to the mirror in the hall and watched him as he watched himself, incredulously.

He didn't look that much different. His hair was just as dark, his face just as thin (even after the meal they had shared just before the haircut) but his eyes were clearly visible now and they seemed warmer than before, more pronounced. He had Eileen's eyes, truly dark and magnificent and deep. His nose, on the other hand, seemed less prominent with the haircut. Somehow, the tips of his hair didn't seem to point towards the nose anymore – and it wasn't the only thing that show between the curtain of hair that he usually let forward when he was embarrassed or didn't want to be seen.

There – she liked it better this way. That way, people could see his face. And she could see his face all the time.

Eleanor smiled to herself as he touched his hair and seemed to like it. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly and his eyes gleamed. This was good – he was getting better.

.

The woman in the green coat looked around herself. Yes. It still looked the way it had done but it seemed a lifetime ago. It seemed that now it made sense that the world would look like this. Now, it made sense that it was dreary and that it smelled slightly and that the houses looked like nobody had taken care of them in a long time. Now, it made sense. Back then, it hadn't.

She grimaced and pushed her fingernails deeper into the fabric of the coat of the man whose arm she was holding onto. Whose free hand covered hers from time to time and whose face said clearly that he was – happy – not to live under such circumstances. Happy that he had taken a risk, happy that he was not forced to be there, happy that...well. There was no point now. It was how it was.

She had cried enough tears. The man she was clinging to was right – they had a debt to repay. They had things to do. Time for crying could be later. Now was the time to make things even.

.

_Semantics is the study of the meaning of words, phrases and sentences. In semantic analysis, there is always an attempt to focus on what the words conventionally mean, rather than on what a speaker might want the words to mean on a particular occasion. This technical approach to meaning emphasizes the objective and the general. It avoids the subjective and the local. Linguistic semantics deals with the conventional meaning conveyed by the use of words and sentences of a language._

That much, he could understand and as he sat in front of his fire, as he sat reading through one of the textbooks (because he wasn't quite desperate enough for a romance novel), he found it increasingly interesting. Linguistics, it was simply called. And he hadn't been aware of how much time had passed since he had begun, first skimming through, then reading thoroughly. He hadn't quite realised that it was interesting. Had forgotten about his shorter hair that resembled Potter's hairstyle just a little. He was just reading – and he forgot to be grateful to Mrs Callaghan's second son, Stephen, for having gone to college. He forgot to turn on the lights and read in the flickering flames of the fire. Absorbed it. All of it.

Barely heard the knock on the door, and only got up when it became insistent. Still hadn't bought tea for Eleanor. He would have to, in the morning.

"I'm quite..." he said as he opened the door and his mouth fell open. He swallowed hard, blinked, swallowed again, blinked again.

"Hello Severus," the woman said.

"Hello Severus," the man, clinging to her arm said.

He blinked. Draco's visit had been a shock but this was positively – alien. "Narcissa. Lucius," he managed to choke out, stepping aside and letting them in.

.


	11. Presupposition

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Presupposition: _

_When a speaker uses referring expressions like _this_, _he_ or _Shakespeare_, in normal circumstances, she is working with an assumption that the hearer knows which referent is intended. In a more general way, speakers continually design their linguistic messages on the basis of assumptions about what their hearers already know. These assumptions may be mistaken, of course, but they underlie much of what we say in the everyday use of language. What a speaker assumes is true or is known by the hearer can be described as a presupposition. If someone tells you _Your brother is waiting outside for you_, there is an obvious presupposition that you have a brother. If you are asked _Why did you arrive late?_, there is a presupposition that you did arrive late. _

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

Hermione grinned at Harry as he unpacked the bags they had brought from their little shopping spree at Oxford Street. Topman, Primark, huge bags. A suit, a few jeans, shirts, t-shirts, new socks and underwear even (which she had seen and which were, in her opinion, inconclusive. Boxers – plain ones and some with wacky, supposedly funny prints). He dumped all of the contents on the floor around him, sat in the middle of it, grinning like a little boy at Christmas, looking at everything three times at least.

It was sweet and endearing to see him like this – and at the same time sad. She knew he had never received clothes of his own before he had gone and bought them for himself. And those Christmas jumpers Mrs Weasley knitted regularly. Those were the only exceptions. And now, he sat literally, in the midst of heaps of clothes, fingering the fabrics as if it was the most wonderful thing in the world.

Her grin turned into a smile and she unpacked her own clothes, not as much as he had bought, but enough to get by and she was glad that her parents had left her a considerable sum of money in England. And she, as Harry and Ron and so many others, had received money from the Ministry. The unfairness, once more, struck her and it made her shove her new little black dress back in the bag.

"Harry," she said, choked, a tear escaping her and running down her cheek.

"Hermione, what's wrong?" he asked immediately, jumping to his feet and enveloping her in her arms. "What's wrong? You were smiling a minute ago."

She felt the tears running into her eyes, out of her eyes. "It's just," she stuttered. "I just..."

"What?" he asked, hugging her tightly.

"I bought all this stuff with money from the Ministry," sobbed Hermione. She was unable to stop now. The unfairness of what had happened, of what was still happening, of how much Severus Snape had done and where he lived now, how he dressed, what he did, how he did it, it was all bubbling up inside of her, it hurt her. It hurt her terribly and so far, she hadn't cried for him – and now, in the midst of a pile of clothing and plenty of bags, it had hit her and she did. The tears spilled over on Harry's jumper and she nestled her head as closely as she could, into the crook of his neck. "I bought all this stuff with money from the Ministry," she repeated, "And Snape who's done so much more has to live in that hovel," she sobbed again and buried her face deeper into his neck.

She felt Harry stroke her back and pat her but he couldn't say anything either. It was just too depressing.

.

Severus stared wide-eyed as those two people walked into his house, through his hall, into his living room. There were no noses in the air, no weepy falling on knees. It was just two people casually, more or less, walking into the living room. Lucius was without his walking stick.

"You really don't have any furniture," said the blonde man suddenly, spinning around to face him.

"News travel fast," snapped Severus, trying – and succeeding – to plant a sneer on his face. He didn't owe those people anything and those people didn't owe him anything. He wanted nothing to do with them. He wanted them out of his house – or be killed quickly.

"Severus," Narcissa came up to him and put her hand on his arm. His marked arm. He pulled it back quickly, as if her touch was burning him – and his arm tingled. He knew it was nonsense, he knew it couldn't possibly tingle, the Mark was almost gone and only pinkish scar tissue remained, and the Dark Lord was gone but he did not feel comfortable. The woman sighed and even though he had taken a step back, she took another step forward. "Severus, we came because..."

"To gloat?" he hissed. "Couldn't believe what Draco told you and were so overjoyed that you had to see this for yourself?"

"No, Severus," said Lucius. "We came for you. Because of you. You can't possibly live like that. And what are you doing with those books over there? You're not...you're not burning them, are you?"

"Take them!" he continued hissing – didn't want Mrs Callaghan to hear them again this time. "Take it all. Take what you find, it's not much."

"Severus," Narcissa tried to put her hand on him somewhere again but he was quicker. He still had his reflexes, "we could help you. We have furniture and well, we don't have money at the moment but we could..."

"Confound Muggle people to give you money," Lucius interrupted.

"Still torturing Muggles?" spat Severus. "Well, here I am. I'm unarmed. Do what you came to do and leave again. I don't want you here."

.

She had calmed somewhat, had let herself be helped sitting down, had let herself be bribed with a cup of strong tea and her tears had slowly subsided. In the end, she hadn't know what she had cried about. Her own loss of family, her own loss of friends, her own loss of innocent, all those lost their lives – or Severus Snape. Maybe all of those reasons. Maybe it had just overwhelmed her, realising how lucky she had been, that she could walk around London, could shop on Oxford Street and could enjoy the things she had bought while others were dead – or struggled. Others who deserved it just as much – if not more – than she did. But she had calmed and she knew those thoughts would indubitably pull her into another valley of tears and she had so improved since the end of the way. Didn't cry at every turn, wasn't so easily shaken. But this had been just enough. And poor Harry still didn't quite know how to handle her.

She hung her head low over the cup of tea she was having, her hair obscuring her face, the hot steam rising in her face and she took a deep breath, when her own calming further was interrupted by the tapping of an owl against the window. She only looked up quickly and watched as Harry untied a scroll from the leg of the tawny owl and read.

"Harry?" she asked when he read, with his finger, tracing the things that were written.

"Do you feel up to going to the Ministry?" he asked cautiously.

"Did something happen?" asked Hermione anxiously.

"Well, they...Kingsley wrote. He wanted to inform us that they have found who cast the curse on Snape," he said seriously.

"And?"

"Take your wand and come with me," he answered seriously.

.

"We don't want to hex you," said Narcissa. "And what Lucius means is that...we have informed us and we are aware that it can be difficult to obtain money in the Muggle World and we want to help. We understand there are rather a lot of forms involved and...

"How do you know that?" he cut in, sharply.

"We have our ways of knowing, Severus. You know that," Lucius answered with an honest smile. The first honest smile that man had bestowed on him since the birth of his son – probably.

"I don't want your help," he put the sneer firmly back on his face, "And the way I understand, you have enough on your plate as it is."

Narcissa sighed softly. "It hasn't been easy."

"Well then, take care of that," he sneered and lifted his finger to point it at the door. "I get along nicely, thank you very much."

"Severus, we owe you."

"You owe me absolutely nothing. Do you not understand that I do not want to know you any longer? We live in different worlds. There is, according to you and according to your son, and according to one other source, nothing anyone can do or I will die. So I ask you now, if you want to kill me, just go ahead, just try to remove the curse, otherwise, leave me be. Take the books but go."

"Severus, we want to help," pleaded Narcissa.

"I don't want your help! How often do I have to repeat myself? I want you to leave now. I have no other way of getting you out of my house but by manhandling you and I try not to do that, so please leave of your own accord."

"We have a thing to ask of you," Narcissa began again.

"Out. Now," he sneered. "I knew you wouldn't come out of the goodness of your heart and I don't even want to hear it. If you don't leave, I will."

Lucius shot him a sad look, in his eyes something Severus had not seen, and took his wife's hand, nodded at Severus and left. Just left. Left Severus alone with his thoughts.

Oh, they had looked bad. There were deep lines etched in both their faces – but he had done enough. Whatever they wanted, he didn't owe them anything. They didn't owe him anything.

And more than anything, Severus wanted to severe his ties with the Wizarding World. He did not want to know any witches or wizards anymore. He wanted to be left alone. No, that wasn't true. More than anything, he craved a cup of tea and wondered briefly whether it would be rude to just ring Eleanor's bell before he remembered his undeniable Slytherinness and made his way out to his little garden, making as much noise on the way as he could.

.

Kingsley greeted both of them with a face like thunder, his usually so kind visage contorted in a grimace of disgust. He shook Hermione's hand firmly before he led them into his office.

"Well," Hermione couldn't contain her curiosity any longer.

"I...you have seen him?"

"I have seen him. Harry has seen him, too."

"But he knows about the curse?"

Hermione nodded. "I told him."

"You told him?" Harry asked sharply. "When?"

"I'll tell you later," she pleaded. "Please. Who was it? The Malfoys?"

"Tell me now," insisted Harry.

"Later. Please. Kingsley? Lucius Malfoy?"

Kingsley shook his head. "No. But first of all, let me say that I have put my people on it to research a way of undoing it. There is none. The curse fell into oblivion about three hundred years back and we have no idea how she came across it. It's only mentioned in one book that we know of."

"Who was it?" Harry asked hotly, pacing around the office. Hermione was unsure why he was so agitated about it. Why he cared so much. Or why she cared so much. Was probably the fact that he had looked so thin and so miserable. Was probably the fact that it had seemed hopeful that he could get a wand back, that the Wizarding World would not lose such a great mind and such a brave person. Maybe it was...she wasn't sure what it was.

Kingsley rubbed his hand across his face and sat down heavily on his chair.

.


	12. Coinage

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**.**_

_._

_Coinage_

_One of the least common processes of word-formation in English is coinage, that is, the invention of totally new terms. The most typical sources are invented trade names for one's company's product which become general terms (without initial capital letters) for any version of that product. Older examples are _aspirin, nylon _and_ zipper_; more recent examples are _kleenex, teflon _and_ xerox. _It may be there is an obscure technical origin (e.g. te_(_tra_)-fl(_uor_)-on_) for such invented terms, but after their first coinage, they tend to become everyday words in the language. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Kingsley seemed too disturbed to say much more, Harry paced and Hermione fidgeted. It lasted only a few seconds, she knew, but it seemed so much longer, it seemed hours, minutes.

"Follow me," the Minister of Magic said suddenly and lifted himself up from the chair he had sat in. "She's still in the questioning room but...I suppose the Wizengamot will be rather swift with the verdict this time," he shook his head and stepped out into the corridor, both Harry and Hermione on his heels. He mumbled as he walked and Hermione, though she was truly closely behind the tall man, only understood a few snippets. She had never seen him so distressed, really and her mind whirled with the possibilities -

someone close to them? Someone he obviously had never expected. Someone who had always led a perfect life?

Who?

She knew Dolores Umbridge was in Azkaban. She had been tried in between the Death Eaters and Severus Snape. She was there, Hermione knew.

And everyone else – every female (he had said 'she' after all) seemed so outrageous.

Alecto Carrow had been Kissed.

Bellatrix Lestrange had died by Molly Weasley's hand.

Molly Weasley was unthinkable. And she had been at the Burrow cooking and doing housework when they had been in the courtroom. So had Ginny Weasley.

Minerva McGonagall? No. That woman, as far as she knew, fought to incorporate Severus Snape back into the Wizarding World. She was a decent person. She was a good person. And she had admitted, full of gilly water and Firewhiskey Manhattan (another one of Harry's inventions which tasted extraordinarily good), that she missed 'her Severus' and that she at least wanted to talk to him.

Who else was there? Hermione couldn't think of a single name.

"...cannot believe … her. Truly shocking. … idea ... people ... side," she heard the Minister mumble and caught, at the same time, a glimpse of Harry. He was just as tense as she felt. What was it that made both her – and him – feel like this about the man who had made their time at school miserable? Well, more Harry's than hers.

She grasped his hand. "Did you send the letter?"

He nodded. "And you went to see him?"

She sighed and nodded guiltily. "I had to. After he sent us away. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

He frowned at her. "We could have gone together," he hissed.

"I know but I thought that one of us would be less...I don't know, intimidating. And it's maybe wrong of me but I thought you and all that that implies would sit worse with him than me. It didn't he almost struck me so..."

Harry grunted, then looked at her. "He nearly struck you?"

"No, he threatened me. It wasn't serious and I honestly think that I pushed it a bit far. But I had to tell him about the curse and I did. And so that's alright. I won't go back."

Harry arched his eyebrows questioningly as they followed the Minister of Magic and his almost billowing, colourful robes through the building. "I saw your face earlier, 'Mione. When we came back from shopping and after that crying. You will try to persuade Kingsley to give him money and if he refuses, you will give him some. I know you."

Hermione groaned. "Well, is that such a bad thought?"

"We're here," Kingsley interrupted them and pointed at a door. "You will see her through a charmed window inside."

.

He had spent the day reading in his room. His parents had gone somewhere – and had, again, not told him where. He was sick of it. He wanted to get out, wanted to live somewhere else, wanted to be someone else. He couldn't bear it any longer to be treated like a child, to be left out. He had, rebelliously, put on those jeans again in the morning but the only reaction he had received, again, had been a careful frowning and arching of eyebrows. Nothing more, nothing less. And then they had left. Had left him alone in that gloomy house with nobody to talk to.

His former friends – gone. Pansy had never spoken to him again after the Final Battle. Gregory Goyle, well, he had never really gotten over Crabbe's death and hadn't minded at all to be put under house arrest. The rest of the Slytherins had either fled or met their fate. He didn't want to think about all those things.

If he only had a bit more money, he would be able to find a flat of his own, find a job or an apprenticeship and get to work, earn money. People would laugh at him, he knew. People would sneer at him but he would have to swallow that too.

If he wanted the name of Malfoy to stand for something better than what it had in the past. He would have to work, no matter what. Even if he didn't know what to do, how to do it but he could only think of one person who could give him advice. Only one person he trusted still enough.

He would have to see his godfather again and soon.

"Draco?" he heard his father from downstairs. "Come down here."

.

Severus had enjoyed a cup of tea over the wall in the garden with Eleanor, and had then go back inside, back to the textbook. He wanted to delve into that academic world again, into a world that he had not known before, that analysed speech and language and that had made him forget before. Why shouldn't it manage to make him forget the unfortunate visit of the Malfoys now?

He opened the textbook randomly and read. He was so absorbed in the textbook that he didn't truly notice the fire growing smaller and smaller. Only the shiver when he looked up, thinking if there could be a pen, or a pencil somewhere in the house for him to make notes, made him aware of the only faintly glowing ashes.

He cursed softly under his breath and threw another bit of former furniture in when his eyes fell on the stack of books. Well – the stack of books that should have been there. There was nothing. Only an empty spot where he had put all the books.

"Bloody thief," he hissed under his breath. He had told him to take them but he hadn't even notice him taking them. They were now all vanished. "Bloody damn thief. Conniving egotistical son-of-a-harpy. Came here to..." he growled low in his throat and knew he would have to do without his books. Not that they were any use of him now. Not that...but it had been so much better to burn them.

Well – he would have to make do without them – and he had offered. He huffed to himself and knelt in front of the fireplace, blowing softly into it to keep it going. He would have to ask Eleanor for some newspaper to start his fire in the future.

Severus growled once more and tried to find a pen. Or a pencil. He had to make notes, he had to try this out what he had read. He had to familiarise himself with that foreign and yet so logical material. And he knew, that would keep him company, this would keep his mind occupied.

.

"Here," Lucius handed Draco a stack of strangely coloured paper with weird looking people on top. This was – Muggle money.

"What's that?" asked Draco.

"I want you to bring this to your godfather first thing in the morning. I took his books and sold them and got their strange currency," he said in a strangely choked voice.

"You took his books? Did he tell you to do that?"

"Draco!" said his mother sharply. "Do as you're told and bring the money to your godfather tomorrow."

"Why don't you bring it yourself?" he asked sharply.

"Draco," his father glared at him. "Do it. And make sure he uses that money for important things. Furniture would be a good idea."

"Oh," Draco said suddenly. "I'll just...Ikea."

"Go, to your room now please. And take those infernal clothes off," said his mother.

Draco was almost ready to go but then he turned around and looked at his parents. "Why do you do this? What do you get in return?"

"This is not for you to know," hissed Lucius and pointed at the door.

.

"Is this...?" Harry gasped as he saw the woman sitting alone in the questioning room.

"Is that...but why?" asked Hermione, just as surprised to see her sitting there.

"Well," Kingsley said tiredly, "we asked, naturally. And she confessed to everything."

"But she...she's in Auror."

"Was," said Kingsley solemnly, "Hestia Jones was an Auror."

"Why she?" asked Hermione, looking at the woman again. She remembered Hestia Jones from Order meetings, she remembered she had brought Harry to Grimmauld Place, that she had taken the Dursleys away. That she had always seemed so loyal. "What's he done to her?"

"She believes," Kingsley sighed, "that Severus Snape is a liability. She wanted to stop that liability. Not knowing, she said, what he was up to and by taking his magic away as soon as she heard that he was not to be Kissed, she made sure he couldn't be a threat to the Wizarding World we've established now. She wanted to make sure that he couldn't regain entry into our world again..."

"But there's not reason," Harry threw his hands in the air.

"Apparently enough reason for her," sighed Kingsley. "She is of the opinion that once he killed, he would probably do it again. And he did kill."

"Is she deranged?" asked Hermione suddenly.

The Minister shrugged. "I don't know. She seems rather lucid. Explained how she found the book in the Auror Department. It was there for a reason. We kept it there because it is a dangerous, old book and we never assumed a top Auror to use the spells in there. We never had reason to think that she might...turn so against him. She never spoke of him but so many didn't, neither good nor bad. She just kept out of it. And..."

Hermione couldn't believe her ears, couldn't believe that someone was vindictive enough to do that – to rob someone of his self. To so completely...she was close to tears again, angry tears this time. Oh but she would have to turn them into something else. She would have to make sure that Severus Snape...

"Compensation," she said aloud.

"Excuse me?" Kingsley Shacklebolt turned to her.

"He deserves compensation. Money. From her. From the Ministry."

"Yes, he does," Harry was quick to agree.

The Minster looked at both of them strangely, then nodded slowly. "I see what can be arranged."

It was good enough for her – especially since he knew that she would come back and ask about it. If she had her teeth in, she had her teeth in and he knew that. But if some good came out of it, if it made Snape's life a little easier, it would help.

"And she only did this because she feared Snape might turn dark again one day?" asked Harry, suddenly.

"Yes. That, and that she thinks that being magical, being a witch or a wizard is a privilege."

"A privilege...that sounds remarkably like..." Hermione exclaimed.

"Indeed," said the Minister sadly. "I don't...We will...she will be taken to Azkaban and we'll have to have some talks with some people. I just thought you should know who cast the curse."

.

The first cup of tea he had made on his own. It tasted, well, okay. Definitely not as good as Mrs Callaghan's but he couldn't always traipse through his garden when he fancied a cup of tea. He had left his house early to go find that shop she had mentioned – Aldi – and had returned with a square block of German chocolate that Eleanor had mentioned that she liked and with two packets of tea – one for him, one for her. It was only fair to bring her that. Not that he had ever bought a woman chocolate and especially not weird shaped German one, but this old woman had helped him. And if it hadn't been for her, he hadn't been up almost all night, trying to figure out what that book meant by

NP → Art N

NP → pronoun

NP → proper noun

Or what that person who had written the book meant by word formatting processes.

At about two in the morning, he had understood. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the way he went through the book now. He wanted to understand it all. He wanted to learn it all. He wanted to try it all.

So the cup of tea was refreshing and helping him. But he needed a table and a chair. Sitting almost all night in front of the fire wasn't good for his back, quite on the contrary. All the hunching and writing on the floor – he was too old for that. Needed to find that Ikea store. Or ask Eleanor to point it out to him. And it would put another dent into the diminishing bank notes in the mattress. But a table had to be. The rest didn't matter.

In the end, as he sipped his tea, standing in the kitchen, he wasn't surprised that there was another knock on the door. It seemed people didn't grasp that he wanted to be left alone. Only briefly did he wonder who it was – could be anyone from Minerva McGonagall (whom he had no longing to see) to Arthur Weasley or Potter again, Weasley. He took a deep breath just before he opened the door and released it, rather positively surprised, that his godson stood there. At least that was someone who respected his authority still. At least he was someone whom he could stand being around and who knew about Eleanor.

"Good morning, Uncle Severus," he said in an uncharacteristically small voice. "Can I come in?"

"Seeing that I seem to be living in the most visited house in the United Kingdom, please, feel free," he snarled.

"Thank you," whispered his godson and stepped into the house. "Oh, you kept the cupboard."

"I have enough wood left for the time being to burn," he grimaced. "However, your father took my books."

"Erm, yes," Draco nodded and lifted a smallish, old fashioned bag made of leather. It was the type of bag he had seen students carry around, under their arms, or if there were straps, over their shoulders. It looked just as worn but not in any way Wizardy.

"I found this in the Room of Requirement back at school. I didn't steal it, it was just there," the boy said, blushing slightly.

"And what would you do with it?"

"I wanted, erm, you to have it," he smiled a little shyly (another first, probably). "And please, I won't take no for an answer. You've given me so many gifts and I know that you have little but maybe you can use this in any way. To carry things around."

Severus looked bewildered. What would he do with a worn leather bag? But he supposed it would come in handy if he carried only a few things home from the shops.

"Promise you will keep the bag the way it is?" Draco asked and because Severus wasn't thinking clearly, because he was still too startled and trying to work out how a pureblood like Draco Malfoy could have pinched a clearly Mugglish bag from the Room of Requirement, he merely said:

"Yes."

His shy smile turned into a sly smirk and he handed it over. "Promises are not to be broken."

Severus frowned and took the leather bag from the boy. It was heavier than he had suspected – and on instinct, he opened it. It was full with bank notes.

"Draco!" he hissed sharply but the boy only shook his head.

"You promised to keep the bag the way it is," he smiled again. The little boy smile, clearly. "Do you think we can go to that Ikea-thing now? I'm curious."

.


	13. Parts of Speech

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Parts of speech_

_Nouns are words used to refer to people, objects, creatures, places, qualities, phenomena and abstract ideas as if they were all 'things.  
Adjectives are words used, typically with nouns, to provide more information about the 'things referred to_ (happy _people_, large _objects_, cute _creatures_, stupid _ideas_)  
_Verbs are words used to refer to various kinds of actions_ (run, jump) _and states_ (be, seem) _involving the 'things' in events  
Adverbs are words used to provide more information about the actions and events _(slowly, suddenly)_. Some adverbs_ (really, very_) are also used with adjectives to modify the information about 'things' _(really _large objects,_ very _stupid ideas)_  
_Prepositions are words (at, in, on, near, with, without) used with nouns in phrases providing information about time_ (at _five_, in _the morning),_ _place_ (on _the table,_ near _the window) and other connections _(with _a knife,_ without _a thought) involving actions and things.  
Pronounds are words_ (me, they, he himself, this, it) _used in place of noun phrases, typically referring to thinks already known (he likes_ himself, this _is_ it!)  
_Conjunctions are words _(and, but, although, if) _used to connect and indicate relationships between, event and things (we swam _although _it was very cold) _

.

Severus glared as best as he could at his godson. He had been out-Slytherinned by a mere boy. He was stuck with stacks of twenty Pound bills now. It wasn't as much as he had deposited in his mattress but from the looks of it, it was at least five thousand Pounds. But the utter, sheer cheek of Lucius Mslfoy to steal his books and sell them. And to make his son bring him the money. And the utter cheek of Draco – so Slytherin. So...oh it was a reason to be proud of the boy, really. He had learned. He had matured. He had thought about this. And it had, obviously worked.

"Draco," he said threateningly and wanted to hand him back the leather bag.

"You promised. And you can truly use some furniture, Uncle Severus," the boy said. "At least a desk and a chair. Or a table. And somewhere to put your tea."

Severus glared. But he had promised and he had never, in his life, broken a single promise. He nodded solemnly, then put the bag on the floor.

"My parents did not say why they did this," said Draco quietly.

Interesting. So his godson, obviously, thought along the same lines he did. There was nothing Lucius would do without knowing that there was some benefit for him in it. He wondered, and had wondered, though, what it was. He was now a mere Muggle. He was a nobody to the Wizarding World. Just one of those more or less worthless people who were scattered all over Britain and all over the world. Not worth thinking about it. And why would the Malfoys, especially Lucius, be interested in that?

He was nothing. And since he had no plan of procreating, he would never even have a reason for entering the Wizarding World in one way or another. And he had to admit to himself that in the past forty-eight hours, he hadn't missed magic. Or maybe even longer than that. Well, yes, he had wanted to hex first the Granger girl and Potter, then Draco, then of course Lucius and Narcissa but he wouldn't have done it in any case. That much he knew. Even if he had his wand, his full capability, he would have never done it.

And when all was said and done, he had to fists that would work as well. Not against a Killing Curse but in favour of throwing people out of the house. That much, he could do without magic.

Only, no, he did not want to throw Draco out. The boy was more insightful than he had anticipated – and he had shown rather great cunning in having him take the money. There was no other word for it. He had been tricked into taking the money by his godson.

Be that as it may, he let Draco's comment slide. There was no telling what the Malfoys were after. But if his godson was so willing, or eager, rather, to go to Ikea with him, he wouldn't say no to a further pair of hands that could help carry things. Only trouble was...he had no idea where he had to go.

"Draco," he began hesitantly, "please go over to Mrs Callaghan's house and ask her exactly where Ikea is and how we get there. I will get changed in the meantime."

The boy nodded and with a grateful, little boy smile, darted off. Well, if Severus was honest, this was probably not what his parents had expected (not that he had expected it) and if he could bring his godson to lose all his prejudice against Muggles, that could only be a good thing. He had no clue, however, if Ikea was the proper way to go about this.

.

It took Draco a moment to figure out that there was a doorbell. Knocking on the door hadn't helped. He had stood in the cold for about five minutes and nobody had answered. And that didn't truly come as a surprise since there was no knocker or anything. And banging against doors was rude, he had been told even as a boy.

But after about five minutes, he noticed a little white knob and he pressed, curiously, on it with the tip of his finger. There was a racket going on inside. Loud chiming and ringing or whatnot and a moment later, truly, only a moment, fifteen seconds tops, Mrs Callaghan opened the door.

Her eyes went gleamingly happy after a moment and her mouth fell into a delighted smile, he thought. She was – from what he could tell – happy to see him.

"Oh Draco, you came back," she gushed.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered as politely as he had been taught and bowed a little. "My godfather send me to ask how we could get to Ikea. He doesn't know exactly where it is."

"I wasn't aware that he had a car," she said, only a lilt in her voice, not a strong accent and she slowly reached towards him, touching his cold-bitten cheek with her fingertips. Warm fingertips.

Draco frowned but was, internally, delighted at having that woman touch him. Again. "I don't think he has one," he replied hesitantly.

"Well then tell your godfather that I'll be there in a tic and that I will drive you. The car's old and I'm afraid the heating isn't working properly well but you can't honestly walk all the way to Ikea and back. It's too far. And the stuff will be too heavy to carry home."

Draco had honestly not thought about it. If his godfather bought furniture, at least chairs and a table, how would they get all of that to his house? Mrs Callaghan seemed to think that it fit in her car – but a table and chairs were big. And no matter how big the car was, it seemed unlikely, that the furniture would fit in there. Maybe Muggles had their own sort of Shrinking Charms. Or maybe Extension Charms on cars. He would have to wait and see but for the first time, Draco felt as if a whole new world had opened up to him. There was a life outside Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor and Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley and all the other magical places. There was an entire world to see. A world in which people did not know him and didn't immediately sneer at him, or point at him, or make fun of him. A world in which people didn't know him. A world in which furniture could be transported in a car.

Oh, he knew what a car was. He wasn't that uninformed altogether – but he had never ridden in one. He didn't know what to expect but there was a strange feeling inside of him. A feeling that he hadn't had in a long time. It was a sort of excitement, of looking forward to something. Anticipation.

"Will do," he told Mrs Callaghan and as he hand left his cheek, he left her doorstep and walked briskly back to his godfather's house.

Oh but if his parents knew... Draco Malfoy smirked to himself. He would go where no other Malfoy had gone before him.

.

The boy smirked. Smirked.

"And?" asked Severus.

"She told me that we should wait outside because she'd drive us with a car. It's too far to walk, she said," he answered, and the smirk was a little boy smile again. Some part of Severus felt even tempted to ruffle his godchild's hair and to tell him to calm down a bit. On the other hand, he was no boy anymore. He was almost grown up, was of age. And the way, he saw it, he was merely excited about all this.

He wasn't. Driving in a car with an old woman? Mrs Callaghan seemed fit but she was over seventy and her eyes couldn't be that good anymore. Her ability to react quickly had probably been lost somewhere in the last seventy years and he had seen cars rushing by as well. He had almost been run over more than once already on his ways to the supermarket.

But on the other hand, it did make sense not to walk around with furniture especially not far. He was still not on top of his physical fitness and he definitely would not let Draco use his wand to make everything smaller and lighter. If Draco wanted to spend time with him (which it almost felt like – strange as it was), he would have to keep his wand to himself. There would be absolutely no magic around him. Not anymore.

Severus Snape was nothing if not consistent. He had received his verdict, someone had put a curse on him – and he would live by it. This was his way of repenting his sins.

And – so far, living as a Muggle had not been so terrible. Quite on the contrary. He had a neighbour who seemed to like him and a godson who came to see him and seemed to have earned his trust again. That was more than he could say about his last days before the Final Battle. And as far as everything apart from driving a car went, he did trust Eleanor. He knew that she would not betray his trust. As long as he survived driving in a car with her.

Severus pulled on his new leather jacket and nodded at Draco. "Let's not keep her waiting," he said gruffly.

"Have you ever..." the boy asked curiously, anxiously.

"Driven in a car?" he asked back and watched how Draco nodded. "Yes. But it has been a while."

Oh, he had. With his father and mother. In another lifetime.

"What's it like?"

"You'll see," he said, barely able to hide his smirk. The boy was in for a ride.

.

She smiled broadly. Those two looked always so solemn and even cross but she knew that in there were kind, good, brave men in both of them. She had seen scars on both of them. Terrible looking things on Severus's neck (that she had every intention of inquiring after – all in good time) and the boy had a long scar on his lower arm and a little scar that seemed to divide his left eyebrow.

Oh but Severus looked dashing in the leather jacket. Cut quite the figure in the old thing and a pair of jeans. Oh but he needed new shoes. They looked worn and not good anymore. It was Christmas soon and there would be snow, probably. It had been known to happen occasionally.

"Ready?" she asked, smiling at the two of them, then walked forward and grabbed the lapels of the leather jacket. "It suits you," she whispered and winked. The tips of his ears seemed to grow a little pink and she smirked.

The old Fiat would do its job, she hoped and she knew that those smart people at Ikea always had their furniture always packed as small as possible. It would all go in there, even if it would be a little uncomfortable. Better than have them walk in the cold. With a heavy load. They both looked scrawny still. More good meals and she would invite them for Christmas. That was for sure. She wasn't sure about Draco's family but Severus had to come. Even if it meant that he'd have to endure her family. Which wasn't always easy. But he would survive.

She watched, with barely concealed glee how Draco folded himself in the back of her Panda and how Severus eyed the car rather suspiciously before getting in, before she got in herself and started the engine. Yes, it made that typical whining sound and it did rather...well, it still ran. And that was what was the important thing.

"Ready?" she asked, curiously, as Draco fought with the seatbelt. It almost looked like he had never used one before and he had to watch his godfather as he fought with his own. Strange, she thought. Something was – weird. She would have to wait and see – and ask. But struggling with seatbelts? The boy almost strangling himself and Severus fiddling with it until he could fasten it? That was – well. Surely any kind of person knew how to use them?

Still, she was intent to focus on her driving and she did. It wasn't too far to Ikea though and she managed without any further incidents. The boys were both quiet and in the rear view mirror, she could see Draco looking rather afraid. It was odd – and she certainly wanted them both there at Christmas. Just to observe them. And of course, to feed them.

.

Severus felt absolutely overwhelmed. There were little living rooms and bedrooms and kitchens and halls and everything in little cubicles and you could sit in them and look at the things in there. It was as if he was in someone's overstuffed, huge home, really. Apart from the masses of people in there. Draco, walking closely next to him felt obviously the same way. It was truly astonishing to believe that people would have built all that, that people would have put it all there as if it was really someone's over-decorated living room or bedroom or bathroom or hall or study or kitchen. And fake flowers everywhere.

He could not even imagine one of those tables he saw there in his living room. Or one of the chairs that stood, not only decorated in the rooms but two or three rows as well for perusal. He had absolutely no idea. That was too much.

If there had been three or four – he could have picked one. And those weird names. Things with ä, ö, unpronounceable. He was overwhelmed and he felt slightly claustrophobic.

It was Draco who got securer quicker. He truly looked at the tables and at the small living rooms and the rows of tables and chairs. And it was Draco, together with Eleanor, who saw one first. A table he might like. But if truth be told, at that stage, Severus only wanted to get back into the frightening car and go home. Or better yet – walk home. Shut himself into his blissfully empty, blissfully quiet living room. And yes, he caught himself more than once rummaging through his pockets, looking for his wand.

An average table was what they pointed out to him. Not too large, but not small either, wooden. Not too heavy looking.

"That one's good, I think," Eleanor said gently, moving to his side, her hand touching his gently. "It is a bit overwhelming, yes?"

He didn't have to say anything. It was enough to just look at her and she understood. Or she seemed, at least, to understand.

"Do you like it?"

He didn't care. It was a table. It would do. "Yes," he said.

She smiled softly and nodded. "Alright then. Draco, remember the name and the what location it says on the tag," she said, a little louder. "I'm sure there are chairs that fit, too."

Again, he nodded. Couldn't speak. Was too much. Too many people, too much perfection, too much strangeness in that place.

.

Oh it was wonderful! There were little made up rooms and Draco felt as if he could be truly comfortable in one of those rooms. If he ever had enough money to afford his own flat, he wouldn't go to one of those Wizarding furniture shops. He would go there. And pick up his furniture there. It was pretty and it was lovely and he truly, truly liked the way those rooms were made up. And the furniture itself was pretty. It wasn't the overly stuff, golden gilded, ancient stuff. It was simple, it was clean cut, it was more to his taste. More than all the gold-stuff at his parents' place.

Within minutes, he had found a table and chairs for his godfather – together with Mrs Callaghan. His godfather only stood there and seemed unable to decide, which Draco could understand, really. There were so many beautiful things. So many decisions to make. If he had his own flat to furnish, he would take a lot of time to pick carefully.

Oh, it was really fun. It was even fun to see that Mrs Callaghan, on their way out, picked up a few more items, a few cups and mugs, even plates. Towels, tea towels. That Ikea-shop truly had everything! Everything you needed to live. Astonishing. Draco knew that his eyes grew wider and wider. He had memorised the numbers on the tag of the table and the chairs – and to his even greater astonishment, there were huge huge huge shelves. Higher than the goalposts at Quidditch, well, almost, and there, in those shelves, were slim packages.

He had no idea what that had to do with furniture or the table or the chairs but, as Mrs Callaghan directed them, they picked up the packages, square and heavy and loaded them onto a – sort of trolley thing. One of the bigger ones, four of the smaller ones. But whatever that was, Draco trusted Mrs Callaghan. She knew the ropes, she knew how that worked. And his godfather looked a little weird. As excited as Draco was, as unexcited, almost bored seemed his godfather. But then again, he probably knew how all this worked as well. He had no trouble paying for all that when Draco would have completely failed in even understanding what that woman in that small stall did with the weird shaped, almost wand-like thing in her hand. All he saw was that a reddish light came from there that emitted a beeping sound. And then, Severus pulled those bank notes out of his pockets and paid and they left. It was nothing more – but oh so fascinating.

The moment, Draco left Ikea, he knew he would return and he wanted to return.

.

He had never in his life – apart from those days when he had been almost tortured to death by Cruciatus after Cruciatus – been happier to be home. Happier to be in the house he called home now. With Draco, who insisted on seeing what was in the smallish, square packages.

Severus knew. He had no idea where he knew it from – but he knew that they would have to put the table and the chairs together. He had barely paid attention to what else Eleanor had picked for him but she had bought good things – towels and mugs and plates. He had gone down to the cellar where he knew his father's toolbox sat and as he brought it upstairs, he could already hear his godson's excited chatter. The boy almost rivalled Arthur Weasley now in his enthusiasm but he would keep that to himself.

"Uncle Severus, look. The pictures don't move. They just stick and you have to figure out how to put the furniture together."

"I know," he replied darkly, the tool box in his hands.

"Can I stay and help?" he asked, hopeful.

Severus took a deep breath – but deep inside, he knew it was no question. He couldn't do this alone. But the boy didn't have to know that.

"If you must," he said darkly and sat on the floor, checking the instructions.

.


	14. The Lombard Effect

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The Lombard reflex or effect is the elevation of vocal effort that occurs when talking in the presence of noise. In addition to 'talking louder', the Lombard effect also involves several vocal and articulatory changes associated with the increased vocal effort while the noise is present. We have all experienced this effect when we try to continue speaking even though a loud airplane or train is passing by. _

(Gelfand, 1948)

.

Hermione nodded gratefully at the goblin and pocketed the money she had just been given over the counter.

"I have absolutely no idea why so many of you now want that cheap currency," he muttered.

"Have there been many lately?" asked Hermione, curiously.

"I'm not at liberty to tell," he snarled, then looked over the her head and shouted, "Next!"

She stepped aside, brow furrowed. So there had been many people exchanging Galleons for Pound. And she had just done it as well. With Kingsley's, well, more or less, blessing. She thought that maybe he was too busy, and that he thought it was better she went – better her than Harry in any case. Or not. She wasn't so sure about that anymore but she would have to try. She would have to evoke her inner Gryffindor lioness and would have to just – suck it up. She was doing the right thing, she told herself firmly and he not only deserved, but probably needed it.

And seriously – the poor man was all alone in what seemed like a dead town with an old neighbour only. A neighbour who probably didn't even know who he was. What he had done. And that bit of money, which was actually rather a lot, was rightfully his and he deserved it. Even if it wasn't nearly enough. But she had talked to Kingsley about a sort of rent – and he said he would think about it and talk about it. She was positive that he'd decide on it. The bigger problem, she knew, was only to get him to accept the money.

For now though, it was more difficult, she thought, to get close to him, to make him open the door and to at least talk to her for a minute. If he did, she could always throw the money in through the open door. If he slammed the door right back in her face, she would have to use the postbox. She wondered, not for the first time, thinking about postboxes, if Harry's letter had already arrived but she honestly didn't think so. The Royal Mail wasn't that quick. Or reliable.

She shook her head to clear her mind and closed her eyes, concentrating on her destination, then disappeared with a faint pop.

.

"This is not right," Draco muttered, the screwdriver in his hand. "I could use ma..."

"Don't," growled Severus. "If you insist on using magic, I suggest you go some place where it is used naturally and not here. This is a Muggle house."

"I know that," the boy huffed. "But those instructions are just...what does it mean?" he pointed at a picture which Severus couldn't interpret either. It looked as if one thing was supposed to fit into another thing and was to be secured with screws. His godson picked up the seat of the chair and put it flat on the ground, then what looked like a leg of the chair and tried to wriggle it into the holes provided. It stuck – but wobbled. "And the screws go in where?" he asked.

Severus was close to sending the boy home. He wanted to do this alone, wanted to figure this out himself and not be looked at by his godson as the person who couldn't even put a bloody chair together. Gingerly, he picked up the screw and the screwdriver and put it where he thought it would go – without looking at the instructions again and tightened it. The leg stopped wobbling. It was secure.

One leg on one chair – fifteen to go and an entire table to set up. He would be there, indubitably, until the morning. And he knew this was one of those jobs he truly had to – wanted to – do alone. Like cleaning and like mowing his lawn and like cleaning windows and like painting. Without magic, just with his bare hands. And without his godson. He had seen Ikea, he had ridden in a car, and that was enough excitement for the boy for one day. He would have to switch back into his old, stern teacher mode.

"Draco, I think you should go home now."

"What? Why? It needs to be put together," he almost pouted.

"Because I say so," he said menacingly. "And this is not your place to stay. You've had your little trip into the Muggle world, now return to the witches and wizards and do some magic."

"But..."

"Leave," said Severus again, a little more menacing this time. "You've had your entertainment." Yes, he did know that it had been more than mere entertainment. The boy had really wanted to be there, but now was the time to leave. He needed his solitude and he needed to stop the bubbling memories in his mind. Memories of other furniture, of other times that the boy had been asking for advice – and those times he had not. Those memories of when he had apparently, on orders, had to save the boy's soul and had marred his own. He knew that it wouldn't help to have him there. It would help to keep himself busy. Discarding all the instructions and just doing it, just putting the furniture together. Having to think on the important things – getting a chair to have four legs and stand securely. Getting a table with four legs and four chairs around it. Didn't want to think about all the rest. Didn't want to ponder on his soul or the boy's soul or the Mark that were on both their arms – Marks that looked so alike now they both had pushed their sleeves up.

He glared at Draco, wanting to convey with fewer words that he truly wanted to be left alone and him to leave when there was yet someone else ringing at his door. He shook his head. This couldn't be true. "I live in a bloody train station," he muttered and could only look after Draco as he bounced up and towards the door. All that he could do was groan.

And how did all those people – whoever it was now – knew where he lived? He knew Narcissa knew so Draco and Lucius would know. How Harry Potter had known, he could only guess – maybe his aunt, maybe his memories. But whoever was at the door now – providing it was not one of those people, had no way of knowing. Except if word got around and he didn't want that. He wanted his solitude, he needed to find his own peace there. On his own. Not with masses of people. He wanted his own company and on occasion Eleanor's. Nothing more, nothing less. If it continued that way, he would just...do something. Couldn't hex people. Couldn't put wards on his house. Couldn't repel wizards or Muggles. Couldn't do anything but lock his door and refuse to answer it. And he would have, if Draco hadn't gone to open it already. And he certainly would in the future. Would tell Mrs Callaghan to knock on his back door, or use a special ringing sign – or maybe he could just spy out of the window (there were curtains in the paper bags Mrs Callaghan had used to put all the smaller things from Ikea in. Hadn't noticed when Eleanor had put them in there) and see who was there. He could do that covertly.

Hang up the curtains, finish the furniture, wash the new dishes, make a cup of tea. After he had thrown Draco out. And whoever was at the door.

.

Hermione's eyes widened considerably (and she knew it) when there the door opened. Only a crack, really, but the eyes that looked at her from inside were silvery-grey, not black and when they spotted her, it was flung wide open and a wand was pointed at her. She was quick to draw hers as well, glad that this town, this street, seemed dead. Was dead, probably.

"What are you doing here?" snarled Malfoy.

"I could ask you the same question," she replied icily.

"I came to see my godfather," he said immediately and her eyes widened even more considerably.

"Godfa...well. I came to give him something," she replied. Godfather? That was one thing she had to swallow first. Hadn't known. Hadn't even ever heard rumours. Didn't make sense. Would they, someone like the pureblooded maniacs make a half-blood like Snape the godfather of their only child – only heir? Surprised her. Boggled her mind.

"He doesn't need anything," Malfoy wanted to slam the door shut but she was quicker and put her foot in between. It hurt. He had great strength, put all of his strength into slamming the door. But she had a wand and wasn't afraid to use it. And with that, it was easy. She pushed her way in, pushed him aside, glaring at him, her wand in one hand, her other raised in a fist, close to his face. She knew he remembered her punch and with his wand pointed at her, he watched as she rushed, as quickly as possible, backwards in the direction she hoped the living room would be – and the racket coming from there. It was a distinct noise of things put on the ground, things being picked up and wood on wood. Hermione frowned, her wand trained on Malfoy, then almost fell over a huge package on the ground.

"What the..." she heard Snape mutter and for a moment, her wand still pointed at Malfoy, she looked at him. He sat on the floor, on a greying carpet, between parts of – was that Ikea furniture? She remembered one summer with her parents. Ikea, that wonderful shop. With the tiny parts that had to be put together. And Snape had shopped at Ikea. Was trying to put something together – a chair, from the looks of it.

"I, erm, I came on behalf of the..." she had put a speech together on her way. And it had all gone out of her mind upon seeing Malfoy and Snape there together. Building furniture the Muggle way.

"Out! Both of you! Out now!" Snape thundered, and got up. She could hear his knees clicking faintly but the look on his face was utterly – murderous. "Miss Granger," he came towards her, and this time, she wasn't shrinking back. Or at least she tried to.

"I came here for the Ministry. Minister Kingsley wanted to come himself but he didn't know where and I didn't tell him," she said quickly – fibbing only slightly.

"Get. Out. It's not my Ministry anymore and I have no dealings with it."

"I have money. Compensation. Professor Snape...it's..." she felt herself stutter and stop. Not only her voice stopped, her way backwards stopped as well. He had slowly come even closer towards her and she had backed away. Until there was nobody to back away to. Trapped against a wall, with her wand in her hand, Malfoy by her side and him in front of her. Smelling of wood and Ikea furniture. And tea.

"You can take my kindest regards back to the Minister, the Ministry and all those witches and wizards. Please tell them that they can all go fuck themselves. I'm done with them. This is my house and if you both don't leave this minute, I will call the police."

She glanced briefly at Draco and he looked as stunned as she looked stunned. But she supposed there were different reasons.

"Muggle Aurors," she told him under her breath.

"Ever the know-it-all," he sneered. He stepped away from before her and pointed his finger towards the door. "Do you need any further invitation? Miss Granger, you're in for trespassing. The same counts for Mister Malfoy and I'm sure that you, Miss Granger, will explain in all detail to you, Mister Malfoy, what that means in Muggle law-terms."

His finger still pointed towards the door, his voice, his face, everything threatening. She reached slowly into her pocket, stuffed her wand in as she pulled out the money. It unshrunk itself and she just let the notes fall on the floor as she stepped out, back into the hall, her eyes briefly only meeting Snape's and before he could say anything, throw the money back at her, she rushed out of the house. This had not gone as planned. But at least she had delivered the money and maybe he wasn't so badly off if he could afford furniture.

"Well, Granger," she heard a shout from the house and whipped around just before apparating.

"What?" she asked, seeing a curtain twitch at the house next to Snape's.

"That was very smart," his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Getting me thrown out as well. Thank you."

"I did no such thing," she snapped. "I didn't pull out my wand first."

"What was I to think? Gryffindor Princess coming to my godfather's house? To the house of the teacher we all know you hated? You and your bloody friends?"

"I didn't hate him and I don't hate him now. He's a he..."

"Spare me that. You got me thrown out, you stupid cow. And throwing that money onto the ground. Very smart."

"He would have never taken it otherwise."

"And what do you think he will do with it now?"

Hermione hardly believed her ears. That wasn't the Draco Malfoy she knew. That bloke standing there was passionate, shouted, had not noticed Snape's neighbour watching them, he was angry with her and didn't treat her with, well, sneering arrogance. He truly cared for his, well, godfather. And that was something new to her. She hadn't honestly seen him after the war. Once or twice spotted him but nothing more. She knew her eyes were still wide. They hadn't unwidened since before she had entered that house.

He apparently waited for an answer and when she didn't provide one immediately, he stepped close to her as well, but not as close as Snape had before and continued to glare. "He will use it to make fire. That's that he'll do with that money. You have absolutely no idea what pride is, don't you?" he glowered, then a moment later, he was gone with a pop, leaving her to stand there like an idiot. Knowing, somewhere in the depth of her brain, that he was right.

.

Eleanor Callaghan hadn't seen such a fuss made on the street since Tracy and John Davidson had moved out about seven years back. Their rows in public had been legendary. Had the entire street using them as dinner entertainment. Other than Severus's parents, who tried (or at least Eileen did) to hush up their marital arguments, the Davidsons had loved the attention. And now this. Which was almost as entertaining – only she knew that Severus wouldn't like it. Which made it all the more interesting, to be honest. They shouted a lot and since her window was open a bit, she could hear them shouting. Burning money? Severus couldn't honestly be that daft. But you never knew with him. He had been rather quiet on their trip home, had looked rather afraid in Ikea.

She shook her head to herself. The poor boy. Had needed some rest after the hustle of Ikea and had then to throw those two out. Whatever the story was behind it. Not thinking but rather acting intuitively, she grabbed the stepladder from its place and took it outside, putting it next to the small wall and climbed, carefully, over it. He would probably not let her in through the front door and she had seen the back door being slightly open again. Too much airing. The house got cold too fast. She made a mental note to tell him – before knocking lightly and stepping in.

"Severus?" she called softly and went to the living room.

He sat there, on the floor, with his face in his hands, his shoulders hunched, and Eleanor couldn't do anything but sigh softly. He didn't look up when she came closer, he only sat there, and looked as if he was trying to hide from the world. To hide from everything.

"You heard them, didn't you?" she asked gently, easing herself on the ground next to him. There was no answer, no indication even that he heard her and she did the only thing that truly came naturally to her. She reached out to him, her hands on his shoulders and pulled him to her, his head on her chest, even though his hands still covered it. She saw plenty of pound notes on the floor. More money than she had ever seen on a heap before but that could be dealt with later. Now, she had to deal with the man she held in her arms, her fingers stroking the back of his neck and his back and running through his hair. Slowly, very slowly, his hands left his face. He didn't cry. He didn't seem like the type to cry but he stared into emptiness, stared as if he was seeing something in the far, far distance but at the same time, his arms, slowly, came around her as well, he clung to her and she only held him back, rocking him gently as his head lay on her chest and his arms were around her.

"You know you can talk to me, yes?" she whispered in his ear gently, rocking him back and forth like a little boy.

.


	15. Alveolars

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Alveolars: These are sounds formed with the front part of the tongue on the alveolar ridge, which is the tough, bony ridge immediately behind and above the upper teeth. The initial sounds in _top_, _dip_, _sit_, _zoo_ and _nut_ are all alveolars. The symbols for these sounds are easy to remember – [t], [d], [s], [n]. Of these [t] and [s] are voiceless whereas [d], [z] and [n] are voiced. It may be clear that the final sounds of the words_ bus _and_ buzz_ have to be [s] and [z] respectively, but what about the final sound of the word_ raise_? The spelling is misleading because the final sound in this word is voiced and so must be represented by [z]. Notice also that despite the different spelling of_ knot _and_ not_, both of these words are pronounce with [n] as the initial sound. Other alveolars are the [l] sounds found at the beginning of words such as_ lap _and_ lit_ and the [r] sound at the beginning of_ right _and_ write.

(Yule, 1985)

.

It was the strangest feeling. It was warm and soft and smelled like fresh bread and tea. It felt like – nothing he hadn't felt in a very long time. It felt like nothing he could remember. He knew he worked on a sort of automatic mode, that nothing had been controlled since those two had left his house. He had just sort of sunken together, had wanted to forget, had wanted to be at peace. There had been too much light for it and he had covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn't tell how long he had been sitting there. How long it had been until there had been arms around him. Kind arms, warm arm, with the smell of bread and tea and he felt himself letting go. He felt how his head fell on a warm and good smelling chest and how his hair was stroked, how his back was stroked and how someone – and he knew on some level that it was Eleanor – told him that everything would be fine.

He didn't feel his own arms going around her but at one point, he felt that he was holding onto something as well. Something kind and gentle and something that was worth holding on to. He felt something touching the top of his head, a kind gesture. Lips pressed on his hair. And that small thing, something he had not felt in a long time, if ever, not that he could remember, pulled him out of the deep abyss of memories, of forcing himself to forget and failing.

Severus Snape was in his living room, his front room, sitting on the floor and the smell in his nose, freshly baked bread and tea came from Eleanor Callaghan. Eleanor Callaghan who had her arms wrapped tightly around him and held him almost on her lap. His own arms were around her as well. Didn't know when that had happened, didn't know how long they had sat there. How long she told him that everything would be alright.

And he didn't even know what was supposed to be everything – what was supposed to be alright. He tried hard to pull himself together, wonder what had made her come over. And where she had come from.

"I'm..." he pulled away slightly, looking into an openly smiling face. A kind face, a gentle face.

"I can't claim to know what this is about," whispered Eleanor gently. "But I would like to know," she added quickly.

Severus looked at her, tried even to glare and to throw her out but found that she couldn't. There wasn't any malice in her face, she had no hidden agenda, she was merely curious. And she had probably – just as he had – heard those two dunderheaded idiots arguing out on the street. He only looked at her and shook his head. He couldn't tell her all of his story. He couldn't even tell her the crucial parts.

But something, something wicked inside, almost a voice, almost a conscience told him to. Nagged him to tell her who he was, what he had done, why he was where he was now. That he wasn't supposed to be there in the first place. That his rightful place would be in a Wizarding prison, his soul sucked out of his body. And that he was now there, with a blemished, tarnished, marred soul was merely the work of cruel fate. Or a mocking entity which took pleasure in seeing Severus struggle.

Yes, a mocking, deictic entity. Like that image of God in the Sistine Chapel in Rom – with that finger outstretched but not pointing at Adam,not giving man life – but pointed at him and the face of that painted God, that piece of art he had only ever seen reprinted, wasn't convinced or assured or angry or determined. That Michelangelian God was pointing at him and laughing at the absurdity of the life he had led Severus into. A mocking entity.

He swallowed around a lump in his throat and said absolutely nothing.

"But if you burn that money, I'll box your ears," she said gently.

"I..."

"It's money. I don't care where it came from and if you deserve to have it or not. It's money. I assume you don't have a lot and this will help until you get money from the social. Or a job. They said you were their teacher. You could easily find a teaching job around here."

"I can't teach," he said stiffly.

"Why not?"

"I..." he paused a moment to think. He needed a good reason. Any reason. "I taught at a special school."

"Special needs children?" she asked curiously.

"Yes," he admitted quietly. And in a manner of speaking, that was even true.

"But..."

"I cannot," he interrupted immediately. "I, er, never got a diploma." There. That should put her off track for the time being. "Didn't go to college or university."

"And they let you teach?" asked Eleanor Callaghan with arched eyebrows.

"Yes," he nodded. Didn't know how to say it better. Had no idea.

"You have to go then," she said. "You're smart. And you're young. You have your whole life ahead of you," she shook her own head and ran her fingers through his. He didn't know why. He didn't understand. But this woman loved touching him – or at the very least, liked doing it. Or just did it. He wasn't sure. It didn't matter and he had to keep himself back, every time, from leaning into the touch. From enjoying it. He had to tell himself, firmly, that the woman's hand did not actually belong in his hair. The woman should keep her hands to herself. No, it wasn't as simple as that. Even his mother had eventually, stopped touching him. The Mark on his arm stopped all other people. This was a novelty. This was – he didn't have a name for it. He only knew that he mustn't lean into the touch like that. It wasn't done.

"I'll have to ask Stephen over Christmas. But you have to go to college," she insisted once more, fingers on his cheek.

"I need a job," Severus found himself saying, realising for the first time that this much was true. He had to earn his living. He had to get a job – and with no references, no other places where he had worked before, no diploma, no nothing, his chances were – next to none, probably. Unskilled labour. He remembered the term from his father. Said with a sneer, said with an air of finality. Said in the voice of – doom.

"Stuff and nonsense," interrupted Mrs Callaghan. "There are scholarships for mature students. Stephen ought to know. And in addition to that, you'll get money from the social and you'll be fine. Now, get up and I'll teach you how to make decent scrambled eggs."

.

Hermione apparated home – well Grimmauld Place – eager to share her news with Harry, or to rant at Draco who had, despite twitching curtains and curious neighbours, shouted at her on the street. And what could she have done? Plied Snape with something? Blackmail him into taking the money? Sometimes even Slytherins needed to understand the power of brute force. And no single Slytherin could be as stupid as to burn money. Not even his pride could be that hurt – at least – well, she hadn't been very smart about it. She had had no plan – again. And if she should have been taught anything in the past seven or so years, it should have been not to proceed without a plan. And there she was now – about ten thousand Pounds lying on the floor in that unfurnished (or not quite furnished) living room and she had almost hit Draco Malfoy, or had almost been hexed by the very same.

Godfather. How truly strange. Draco Malfoy, godson of Severus Snape, pureblood par excellence, had worn jeans and a shirt. A plain, grey shirt, blue jeans. It was almost too much for Hermione's overexcited, overworking brain to get it to process the fact of Malfoy wearing Muggle clothing.

"Harry?" she shouted, had to tell the news.

"In the library," he shouted back. "Come on up!"

Well, Hermione thought, obviously the world was upside down that day. Malfoy in Muggle clothes, Harry in the library – next she would discover pigs could fly or that...her thoughts were interrupted rudely when she pushed the door to the library open and registered Harry sitting there with – Malfoy.

"How did you get here?" she asked, frowning.

"Same as you, I suppose," he drawled. "I figured Potter was behind all this. He and you and probably the entire noble house of Gryffindor."

"And he came here to...I don't know, why did you come here, Malfoy?" asked Harry and Hermione was surprised and stunned that he would, well, talk so civilly to him. Seemed more than one thing had changed since the end of the war. A Potter and a Malfoy, talking rather peacefully (despite the snarling and sarcasm she anticipated returning at any moment) in the house of a Black. Astonishing and since her mind was still busy processing Snape and Malfoy's Muggle clothes, this one came a bit short. Potter and Malfoy in that house. Together.

"Tactics, Potter," he drawled. "You go in and want to save the world but you have absolutely no idea how to do it. And since there is obviously rather a lot of money for my godfather invol..."

"Godfather?" Harry frowned. "Who's your godfather?"

"Snape," Hermione explained quietly. "And no, I didn't know either."

"This is not the point," Malfoy continued, trying to sound bored. At least it sounded like that to Hermione. "The point is that you have obviously rather a lot of money which is probably even rightfully my godfather's."

"Well, the Ministry has agreed on compensation," Hermione nodded.

"Interesting. And about time to," Malfoy nodded barely perceptibly. "Be that as it may, if you storm in and shove the money down his throat, he'll choke it up and won't keep it. You can't just go barrelling in there, expecting multitudes of gratefulness."

"And you get involved why?" asked Harry, curiously. "And why with us, not the Minister?"

"Think, Potter, though that never was your strong point, was it? Granger here was there and delivered the money, I knew where you lived since Aunt Bella could spill the beans and remembered. It was the simplest solution instead of waiting about four months to get an appointment with the Minister. I bet you, Potter, can just waltz in there, not like us normal people."

"Normal people," Hermione snorted ironically. "Who's normal?"

Malfoy sighed long-sufferingly. "Why don't you, next time you're thinking of bombarding Snape with money, owl me and I will make him take it. If that's what you need for your Gryffindor redemption."

"Gry..." Harry was beginning to get angry. It was clearly visible on his temple and his ears. Veins and pink. Hermione stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"I know one thing though, Malfoy," she said carefully. "Slytherins don't do anything without getting something in return. What is it that you get out of this?"

He looked at her and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, an ancient expression, something that showed her, again, a more human Malfoy. Or maybe a not quite soulless Malfoy, but as she wanted to focus on the flicker, it was gone, replaced by the cold, arrogant expression.

"And they say you're smart," he sneered. "Think about it and contact me if you need..."

"You want to keep the money yourself," snapped Harry suddenly. "Everyone says your family's skint."

Again, Draco looked up. He curled his upper lip in disgust and without another word, turned on his heel and left.

"That wasn't very smart," said Hermione.

"No. But neither were you, going to Snape like that," he glowered at her.

"It was worth a shot," she shrugged.

"Let's hope he doesn't burn it though. And neither should he burn the letter I wrote. He hasn't..."

"Hasn't said anything. Suppose it hasn't arrived yet," she was glad that he steered the conversation in another direction and she leaned slightly against him. "Dinner?"

"You cook?"

"Hm," she shook her head after a moment. "Pizza?"

"Pizza."

.


	16. Agent and Theme

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**.**_

_Agent and Theme: _

The boy kicked the ball.

_In our example sentence, one role is taken by the noun phrase _The boy_ as 'the entity that performs the action,' technically known as the agent. Another role is taken by_ the ball_ as 'the entity that is involved in or affected by the action,' which is called the theme (or sometimes the 'patient''). The theme can also be an entity_ (The ball)_ that is simply being described (i.e. not performing an action), as in_ The ball was red._ Agents and themes are the most common semantic roles. Although agents are typically human_ (The boy), _they can also be non-human entities that cause actions, as in noun phrases denoting a natural force_ (The wind), _a machine_ (A car),_ or a creature_ (The dog),_ all of which affect_ the ball _as theme. _

The boy kicked the ball.

The wind blew the ball away.  
A car ran over the ball.

A dog caught the bal.

_The theme is typically non-human, but can be human_ (the boy)_, as in_ The dog chased the boy._ In fact the same physical entity can appear in two different semantic roles in a sentence, as in _The boy cut himself. _Here,_ The boy _is agent and_ himself_ is theme. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

What a weird noise, he thought, sitting hunched over his tea. The chairs stood all on four, solid legs, the table stood on four, solid legs. He had done it all by himself, even though Mrs Callaghan had stayed there. With her presence and the tea she brewed, it was not that difficult anymore. Or maybe he just wasn't distracted by his godson. Whatever it had been, he had learned to make scrambled eggs, not that it was very difficult, he had thought, had eaten them with Eleanor and then she had told him to finish the furniture. And he had. With her present. So he could eat, or rather drink, his breakfast at a table, even though half of it was already littered with the notes he had written about the linguistics book. Maybe he would really have to think about this idea of going to university. Or college. Or whichever way it was in this world. Eleanor Callaghan had even – formally – issued an invitation for Christmas. Well, it hadn't been an invitation, really, more like an order. More like 'If you don't come of your own free will, I'll drag you in for Christmas lunch.' He hadn't said anything – and honestly, what could he have said? Her warmth was overwhelming, the acceptance she showed was unmatched. He felt like Mrs Eleanor Callaghan had been put there to show him what he had never had. What he had never deserved. And he doubted that he deserved her and her – affection – now.

The taking away of his magic had been meant as a punishment. And there he was, being almost mothered by a stranger. It wasn't meant to be like that. It was meant to be a punishment. Having Eleanor was as far from punishment as he could imagine.

Still, there had been that odd noise but it wasn't the noise per se that made it peculiar but the fact that he knew what the noise was and that it couldn't be. The postbox. There had been a letter thrown into the postbox. Which made absolutely no sense at all. There had been no letter before, not even that kind of junkmail that Mrs Callaghan complained about. And now, he had heard that noise. Very, very clearly. He took a strengthening sip of tea before he got up and walked on his new, black socks towards the door. He still hadn't tackled the washing machine – he thought at that moment – but he had built furniture. Washing machines couldn't be so bad.

And there, on his brownish carpet in the hall lay a letter. The envelope a sort of beige-dirty-white, with its back up. It didn't look like junkmail. It didn't even look like a cheap envelope.

Severus bit his lip and slowly bent down. His back hurt from putting the furniture together and he had a blister on his finger from using the screwdriver too enthusiastically. But there, there – he knew that handwriting. He knew that handwriting and he wanted to rip the envelope apart, tear it into tiny little pieces, throw it into the fire, or better yet, being it back to the person who send it and make him eat it. Or do other things with it.

But – Severus Snape was a curious person and he decided to read, then rip it apart, tear it into tiny little pieces and throw it into the fire. Or put it into another envelope and send it back. To Twelve Grimmauld Place. So Potter had truly taken up residency there. The old Blacks were certainly spinning in their graves. With an almost overwhelming anger, Severus opened the envelope and pulled the sheet of paper (he had not used parchment, he noticed immediately) roughly out.

_Professor Snape_, it read and Severus growled. He wasn't Professor anymore.

_I know I should apologise in person to you and if you give me a chance, I will. Let me say though that, I regret not having been so sure of your allegiance as I should have been and as Headmaster Dumbledore always told me to be. I want to apologise for not having trusted you and I tried to show it by speaking in front of the Wizengamot. I was shocked to hear what they have done and I want to warn you that there has been a curse put upon you. We do not know yet who cast it but Minister Shacklebolt is working to find out. The nature of the curse is that you cannot remove it, or have it removed and that it disables you to do magic. If you try to get rid of it (by trying to do curse-breaking on yourself or if someone else tries), you die. Nothing happens if you get hexed or if you try to use any other kind of magic. I thought you should know. And I hope you don't mind if I contact you if we find out a way, nevertheless, to break this curse. But from what I hear, this is near impossible so I shouldn't get your hopes up. Please know that there are a lot of people here who want you back and who are fighting for you and your rights. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Harry Potter_

How many people – he wondered – would inform him of that curse? Didn't they understand that he did not care? And how – if he couldn't use magic at all, should he be able (even if that was a question, which it wasn't) to remove a curse on himself? Not that it mattered because he didn't care. Didn't they understand...

Didn't they understand that he was building a new life there? A life which included a neighbour who was nosy but didn't press? A neighbour who touched him voluntarily and who gave up her free time to be with him? That he had more now than he had ever had with magic?

They couldn't possibly understand – and maybe, Severus thought, he didn't understand it himself.

.

Hermione sat quietly, sipping her tea, reading the paper. Neither she nor Harry were in the mood to pretend to be anything that morning. She knew Harry was thinking about that visit of Draco Malfoy's and the same thing – and her visit to Snape was on her mind as well. He had looked a bit better. Bit more colour in his cheeks, bit more meat on him as well. The clothes were better as well. He was still skinny, but not only skin and bones anymore. She remembered the way he smelled. Clean and like tea and sandwiches and Ikea furniture. She just couldn't get the image out of her head – seeing him sitting on the floor with a screwdriver in his hand. Not holding it like a wand. Holding it like a screwdriver should be held. Weird, that.

"Fire's going," Harry mumbled, his mouth full of Weetabix.

"Hm?" Hermione asked back.

"There's someone coming through the fire," repeated her friend and stood up slowly, wiping a bit of his breakfast off his chin. "I'll go and look."

"Didn't you ward it?" Hermione asked, drawing her wand.

"I did, so I suppose it's a Weasley," he whispered and grimaced. Hermione grimaced back – but a Weasley, any Weasley, was better than an unwarded Floo. Except, well, she wasn't sure she wanted to face Ginny at the moment. Or Mrs Weasley. Wasn't sure she wanted to see any of them. Especially at breakfast – the wrong conclusions would be drawn from basically anyone. She sat there, after all, in her pyjamas and was having breakfast. She would draw the wrong conclusions as well. Anyone would – really. But making a dash upstairs now would be just as wrong and the pop from Disapparition would be heard as well. She would have to explain to whatever Weasley would come through the door that she lived there now. Innocently. Not because of what people believed. She and Harry were a ridiculous idea to begin with but she didn't put it past anyone to not see it that way.

Hermione breathed deeply, found herself sucking on her lower lip and staring at the paper intently. She would act normally and calmly. Nothing special. She was having breakfast at home. That was all. And as soon as her parents received her letter, would probably call with their decision, she could make serious plans. Not that she considered moving out. She liked living with Harry, having the company. Having breakfast with someone. Not having to care what she looked like in the morning or if there was a stain on her pyjama top from the tea she had spilled on it.

"What do you mean?" she heard and immediately groaned. Ron. Ronald Weasley was the third worst case scenario. Oh he would be quick with the conclusion even if Harry had, apparently, already tried to explain to him that she was there. And why she was there. Sometimes, she thought, Harry was quick. Or could be, rather, when the mood took him.

She heard Harry mumble, and then Ron again.

"What?"

She braced herself, then sat a little straighter as she took another sip of her tea – and it was barely after that that Ronald, all red hair and cheeks and ears, stormed in.

"What?" he asked again, pointing at her.

"I didn't want to live alone anymore," said Hermione calmly.

"And I didn't want to live alone anymore," repeated Harry, just as calmly. "So we decided to move in together. Flat mates."

"And there's..."

"Ron," Hermione looked at him and smiled. "Do you honestly think that Harry and me would work? Ron, think. Please. Honestly. Look at me. I'm in my dragon-jammies. The library here is extensive and I have to study for the NEWTs." She arched her eyebrows and after a moment, Ron sat down with a resigned look on his face.

"Well, it would be weird. Just as you and me would've been weird," he said after a moment. Hermione breathed a silent sigh of relief. Any other reaction from him would have probably resulted into Ron storming back to the Burrow and telling his family that the two of them had been thrown over for Harry and Hermione respectively. Which wasn't true and Ron, deep down, knew it. Her and Ron had never really officially ended it. Well, they had but how can you end something which hasn't truly begun? And Harry and Ginny had other reasons. Not that she would mention them, or even give Ron a hint what she suspected – or rather what she tried to figure out.

"So?" asked Harry suddenly – sounding very impatient.

"What?" Ron asked back.

"I think Harry wants to know if there is a special reason for your visit," she smirked.

"Nah," he shook his head. "I thought, you know, we could hit the Quidditch supply store. And maybe go for a fly. Ginny's been all depressed and won't fly, Percy's a prat about flying, George is only ever at the shop, Bill's with that wife of his and Charlie is back in Romania. There is nobody to play with."

Harry nodded. "We can. Hermione, you don't mind, do you?"

She shook her head. "I'll be in the library anyway." She caught Ron's expression at that moment – and there was something in it that she didn't quite like. There was something in his expression that had the alarm bells in her head going but she sort of clung to the hope that Ron didn't just say he believed them – but honestly did.

.

He had disposed of the letter. He had resisted the urge to rip it up but he hadn't resisted the urge to throw it into the crackling fire. He hadn't resisted the urge either to watch it burn. There was something soothing about throwing an unwanted thing into the fire – the furniture, the letter, the books before they had gone. It was scourging, it gave him a kind of satisfaction.

He had returned to the old textbooks and his notes. Eleanor had mentioned something about the library, and he would, sooner or later, joined, but the thought of Mrs Callaghan reminded him of the invitation to Christmas, and it made him have to wade through old memories – of former Christmases. In that house, at the other building, institution, that he had almost called his home. Both of which had not been as much his home as this empty house already was. And he had never been closer to anyone. Had never before felt the urge to get someone actually something for Christmas.

Now he did. He wanted to repay her kindness. Kindness he hadn't asked for and kindness he had never expected. It didn't matter now if he deserved it or not but he would get some money from his mattress, or maybe the money she had stacked up carefully and had told him to keep (might as well – bloody Ministry). Maybe it was a good idea, actually, to use the money the Granger girl had delivered to buy a present for his kind – Muggle – neighbour. That way, he wouldn't use it for himself, he would have nothing to do with it, actually. He would just spend it. For someone who ca...well, cared for him. There. He had thought it. He would use the money for someone who cared about him. Money given from people who thought they could buy him, could soothe their guilty conscience by only paying him off.

He smirked to himself – the first smirk for a long time – and put his shoes on and the leather jacket she had given him before he stuffed the money into the pockets. He would have to drive into town – a town he hadn't visited in years and he would have to do that without Mrs Callaghan. Would have to find his own way around. Take a bus. A bus.

But he couldn't just get her something from the supermarket. That wouldn't be right. Not that he knew what to get her and again, he delved into memories. Memories of when he had been a boy, memories of that time when he still had a grandmother of his own. Old woman and never particularly nice. He had only ever met one grandmother – father's mother – and he had no fond memories of her. In her opinion, his mother had been strange, he had been strange and her son should have done much better (probably, from his adult point of view, his other grandparents had thought the same thing). She had, as far as he could remember, not liked much but she had always complained about being cold and had always worn those shawls around her shoulders. He caught an imagine in his mind – too old to be remembered clearly – of her wrapping herself in a sort of soft, finely knitted shawl and him desperately wanting to touch it. His fingers being batted away, a voice saying he was too dirty to touch it and he would make stains on it.

He shook his head – shook the memory back where it belonged (to the very back of his head) and left his house. He would get onto a bus, and into town and would buy the best wrap-around-thing he could find, the warmest, the softest. For her.

Severus checked carefully that his door was locked (remembering he still had to fix that window in the back) and walked down the road where he had seen buses stop. It couldn't be so difficult. He would just get on one, get out at the other end and would wander around until he found a suitable shop. There were no wizards living in that area, he knew, and with a determined scowl, he waited for the bus. There was another person – a young man, not much older than his former seventh years, and Severus watched how he got onto the bus, talked to the driver, handed him some money and then sat down. This wouldn't be so difficult. Couldn't be.

Well, yes, the driver looked strangely at him when he handed him a crisp, new twenty but said nothing and so he sat down, just as the young man had done and waited. Bus-driving was worse than a car – had always avoided the Wizard equivalent and he knew why.

Severus closed his eyes briefly, tried to remember that there was no wand to grasp should he find himself in a dangerous situation. He just had to relax, had to put himself into another place without using Occlumency. Head to ignore the buzzing noises from the people around, the old lady behind him chattering or the young girl giggling into a phone. In the bus. A phone. Strange. He would have to ask Mrs Callaghan about that.

When all was said and done, he reached his destination quicker than he thought and even though there were a lot of people where he got from the bus, there wasn't this overwhelming urge to run away – or to hide -as he had done when going to Ikea. Maybe it was because he could see the sky, or maybe because he knew he was there for a purpose. That he had to be there in order to do what he came to do. Not for himself.

It was still – a new experience. Shop windows and signs and people wanting to give him stuff, papers, on the streets. He was glad he hadn't forgotten how to scowl and that kept most of them away. He looked around, walked up and down the street – until there was a small, tiny shop window with just the thing he wanted. It was broad and looked soft. Cream-coloured (black probably didn't really suit Eleanor) and with determination in his step, he pushed the door open.

**_._**


	17. Instrument and Experiencer

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**.**_

_Instrument and experiencer:_

_If an agent uses another entity in order to perform an action, that other entity fills the role of instrument. In the sentences _The boy cut the rope with an old razor _and_ He drew the picture with a crayon,_ the noun phrases_ an old razor _and_ a crayon _are being used in the semantic role of instrument. When a noun phrase is used to designate an entity as the person who has a feeling, perception or state, it fills the semantic role of experiencer. If we _see, know_ or _enjoy_ something, we're not really performing an action (hence we are not_ _agents). We are in the role of experiencer. In the sentence _The boy feels sad,_ the experiencer_ (The boy)_ is the only semantic role. In the question_, Did you hear that noise?_, the experiencer is _you_ and the theme is _that noise.

.

Eleanor Callaghan couldn't help but push the curtains aside slightly. Who would not watch if two men walked past the street who looked absolutely out of place. She knew one of them – Draco, Severus's godson and the other one looked like his father. They looked very much alike but his father did not look like a boho-hippie. Quite on the contrary. He wore an expensive looking coat with fur trimmings and he had eccentrically long, silvery blonde hair. It seemed to be a sort of snotty, posh, rich man, the way he turned to his son – and began to glare at him. As quietly as she could – and because her lip reading wasn't up to much, even if it was snotty, posh English – she opened her window. It was close to an argument, from what she figured even before she opened the window.

"You will only use him," said Draco, angrily.

"You don't understand," the older man replied, his tone rather low and threatening.

"I'm of age. I fought, Father. Explain to me. Just explain it! Why are we here? Why do you want to see him? He says himself he's a Muggle now."

Eleanor frowned and hid a bit lower behind the curtains. Something in her brain – twitched. There was something. Something she knew and yet didn't remember. Something that made her want to sit down in the dark and think. There was something – and she couldn't quite remember. She couldn't quite remember and she pressed her eyes closed tightly.

"You would not understand!" the older man argued.

"Try me," snapped Draco.

"You forget your place, son," he replied coldly and so quietly that if she hadn't paid close attention, she wouldn't have heard him. He continued in that low tone. "And you understand nothing about Wizarding honour."

Her brain twitched again. There was something – and when she wanted to follow that twitch in her head – it was gone again. Wizarding? Muggle. Sect? Religion? One of those who thought they could practice magic by...there was something more. Something she couldn't put her finger on. The words were strange, yes, but there were plenty of strange people in the world these days. People who believed in aliens and beings on Mars and people who believed in all sorts of deities and disregarded Christianity. The world was confusing these days.

But this was a different kind of confusing. This was like something pointing at something else in her mind, in her memory and she didn't know what it was.

"I have my honour. And I want to know what you want with my godfather," Draco started shouting now. That boy had obviously no control over his emotions. She would have to keep an eye on him. He seemed edgy and twitchy and nervous. Christmas with his family would be good for him. Better than with the man she considered to be his father. That man clearly had no love for his son.

"I want what's best for Severus," he replied – and for a moment, Eleanor was startled. He had never mentioned friends. And this man seemed to consider himself a friend – and he would be if he made him godfather of his son. But then there was a hiss. "And for our family."

Draco looked both frightened and angry – that much she could see through the curtains and if this went on for another moment, she decided, she would interfere. Would just walk out of her front door and greet Draco.

"What would you want from him? He's just a Muggle now. He won't be of any use to you anymore. You can't get into the good books of the Ministry because of him."

"Says who?" the man glared at Draco and began, slowly to walk towards the house. Whatever they were talking about – she would have to tell Draco that it wasn't probably the best idea to talk in front of other's people's windows. Even if it looked as if nobody was in.

But there was, suddenly, that twitch in her brain again. A slight buzzing sound almost, a tapping, a nudge. Something. Something that she couldn't quite grasp. Oh, this was annoying. She might be old but her memory was usually good. It would come to her – it usually did. And even more so when she didn't concentrate on whatever it was that she wanted to remember.

She took a deep breath and straightened – next to the window – before she rushed to the front door and opened it carefully.

The two men still stood there, between her house and Severus's now and she coughed. "Ah, Draco, I thought it was you," she smiled broadly. "Severus is not at home if you want to see him."

"Oh," said Draco. He shot a look at the other man, then turned his eyes on her again.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked him – and only him. There was no way she wanted that posh, snotty person in her house. He looked at the row of houses with that sort of disgust on his face that she didn't even want to see what he thought of her little house. Or of Severus's house – the empty one.

The young man shot the older one a look, rather rebellious, and then looked back at her. "I'd love to."

She smiled and stepped aside to let him step in. He walked past her, and when she wanted to close the door, impolitely, before the older one could walk in, he pressed past her as well, following Draco. She was close to growling – and throwing him out – but then her good manners won.

"Into the kitchen, please, Draco," she said friendly and blocked the way into it, before the older man could follow him.

"I'm Eleanor Callaghan," she said challengingly and in her best English.

"Lucius Malfoy," the man replied coldly. "You obviously know my son."

"Obviously," she replied just as coldly. "Would you like a cup of tea, too?" And what a strange name he had – Lucius. Did people forget about normal names? Not that Severus was a normal name but Eileen had told her why she had named him this way – she had told her. But Eleanor couldn't remember why. There was that itch again. There was something. Something. And she didn't know what it was.

"I'd like to talk to Severus Snape," said the man.

"I'm sure you would," she replied, "but he's not there. What do you want from him?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," he argued arrogantly.

"I think it is," she stared at the tall man.

"I doubt it," he sneered.

"Listen, young man," she set her best gran-is-angry-face on, "you are in my house. You are my guest. As such, I should treat you properly. But if you decide to just storm in here without invitation, I do not feel obliged to observe these rules. You either sit down with me and your son and have a civil cup of tea and tell me what it is you need to speak so urgently to Severus about, or you leave."

She glared, put her hands on her hips and looked absolutely sternly. "What's it going to be?" she asked again.

He huffed, threw his hair, almost like a girl, over his shoulder, and suddenly, her stomach was burning and tingling and stinging and it was pain. There was pain in her stomach. Pain. Blooming, red, hot, white, cold, pain. She clutched her stomach and sunk, without realising it, to her knees.

.

"Hiya," the silly girl said to Severus, much too cheerful for his taste.

"I would like that thing in your shop window," he said sternly. Didn't know what it was called.

"Thing, sir?"

"Shawl. Wrap. That thing," he pointed.

"The pashmina, sir?" the silly girl asked.

"I do not care what it is called. I would like to purchase it."

"Yes, sir. Certainly," she looked at him and smiled. "There are matching gloves and a matching hat, sir. Would that interest you as well?" She looked at him cautiously but with a little smile still playing on her lips. Would he be interested in the matching gloves and matching hat? If the money from the Ministry was enough, yes. Even if it wasn't enough, yes, he was.

"Yes," he snapped as if she should have known already.

"Well, thank you, sir."

Severus rolled his eyes. He didn't care about that eager politeness. He wanted to buy that thing and she wanted to sell that thing, there should be no eager politeness. "Get on with it, girl," he snapped before he could help himself.

The smile that was one the girl's lips died – and she dumped the thing and the gloves and the hat into a bag and he, in turn, took money from his pocket, counted it and dumped it, just as unceremoniously, on the counter before he grabbed the bag. This was the sort of transaction that was only ever necessary. He nodded, scowling, took the bag, and vanished, as quickly as he had appeared, from the shop. There was money from the Ministry left – and he would put that somewhere securely. He would not use it for himself. He'd rather go hungry than buy food from the bribery-money of the Ministry. Those people – he knew – would never ever get into his good books again. Not that many people were in his good books. Not many people at all. One. Currently. One and a half, if one counted Draco – which Severus didn't. Not really. But on the other hand, he didn't doubt that the boy would go to Mrs Callaghan's Christmas. He had been invited and the boy liked Eleanor. That much was obvious and he, if he waded through his memories, probably needed such a person in his life. Draco had always been surrounded by other adults – adults of the variety that either ignored him, or treated him like a child, no matter what his age, and sent him away. Draco had never been taken seriously by anyone. He himself was one of those people who had never believed him capable of anything – and that had not only cost Severus a part of his soul. Draco had, unknowingly, subconsciously, whether her wanted to or not, only fed those beliefs in him when he had not been able to carry out the task the Dark Lord had set him. He had put himself back into the role of the child that had to be protected. Mind, Severus had been against him having to do that. And he was all for Draco being protected but for a child who wanted to be looked upon as an adult, he had done a poor job. Had left it to others, again.

And naturally, ever since then, Lucius would probably be adamant on proving to Draco that he still was a child.

It made little sense to Severus's mind – but that was how the elder Malfoy probably felt. Or – he didn't know. He didn't know those people anymore. Not Lucius with his sudden urge to help him by stealing his books, not Draco with his sudden fascination with Muggle furniture and his obvious liking of Mrs Callaghan. Well – he couldn't blame him for this. Eleanor was – as people went – rather a nice specimen. One of the nicest he had ever met at least.

And he had just bought her a Christmas present. He only hoped she liked it.

.

Draco heard the noise of the door being opened and closed and a second later, as he still hoped that his father had left, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a sharp thump he heard from the hall and something inside of the young Malfoy stirred. Something was off – and he had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling and he rushed out into the hall.

His father was nowhere to be seen (so he had left, his brain processed) and at first, he saw nothing. Absolutely nothing until his eyes fell on the floor. There, on the soft, flowery carpet lay the still form of Mrs Callaghan, her eyes shut tightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her own stomach, her knees drawn up to it, her skirt riding up almost indecently.

"Merlin's dirty pants," he muttered and his eyes wide, he rushed to her side and fell to his knees. She was a Muggle – and she something had obviously happened – and the way this looked, probably his father had happened.

"Mrs Callaghan?" he asked and grasped her shoulder. "Can you hear me?"

The old woman said nothing, she breathed shallowly, her eyes were closed tightly, and she didn't move on her own, not even when he shook her shoulder gently. She just lay there, her knees in sensible stockings (he had read up a bit on Muggles) pulled up as far as they would go, and her arms tightly around her stomach. Her aged, weathered, wrinkly hands cramped.

"Mrs Callaghan?" he asked again, feeling despair creeping up on him. "Shit. What did he do? Can you hear me? What did my father do?"

She didn't answer.

"Sod it," he muttered softly and pulled out his wand. He had to, somehow, make this better. But he had no idea what to do. None at all. Healing spells had never been his forte, finding out what was wrong, Diagnostics, even worse.

In that moment, he heard another slight noise – and he jumped up on his feet, hoping against hope that it was his godfather returning and when he dashed to the door, he just caught him – opening his front door.

"Uncle Severus," he gasped.

"Draco?" he replied, puzzled, looking at him strangely, "What are you...How dare you..."

"Not important," replied Draco urgently. "I think my father hit Mrs Callaghan with something and I don't know how to find out what it is. You have to help. Please?"

.


	18. Lexical Morphemes

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Lexical morphemes: _

_What we have described as free morphemes fall into two categories. The first category is that set of ordinary nouns, adjectives and verbs we think of as the word that carry the 'content' of the messages we convey. These free morphemes are called lexical morphemes and some examples are: _girl, man, house, tiger, sad, long, yellow, sincere, open, look, follow, break_. We can add new lexical morphemes to the language rather easily, so they are treated as an 'open' class of words. [...]_

_(Yule, 1985)_

_.  
_

Severus dropped to his knees. It wasn't conscious, or wanted, he just dropped, next to Eleanor. Anger and resentment flooded him – and worry. Worry about that poor woman lying lifelessly on the ground, If he had a wand now, if only he could use magic now, it would be a matter of seconds, probably, until she was well again, standing, smiling, making him tea, talking to him like nobody had ever talked to him before she had come back into his life.

Carefully, Severus lifted her head, the grey hair surrounding it like – a halo – and held it in his lap. Her forehead, which he touched briefly, was warm, almost feverish and she lay almost curled together, as far as her arthritic limbs would allow it, on the floor, on her carpet.

"Eleanor?" he asked softly, sure that she wouldn't answer, sure that she was out, sure that he was just losing another person. Sure that – this had all been too good to be true. Sure that the magical world was, once more, taking that, which was dear to him.

"Uncle Severus?" Draco stood there, wand limply in his hands, beside them, a bit stiffly, a bit awkwardly and in that moment, in this tiny moment in which Severus saw the almost defeat in his godson's eyes, he knew, he realised that he couldn't let the Wizarding world yet gain another victory over him. They would never take anything which was dear to him. Never again. If he had to fight with all that was left inside of him.

"Did they teach you nothing at that sodding school?" he snapped, glaring up at him. "Cast a bloody Diagnostic and a Counter Curse."

"I don't know how. They didn't and Father didn't..."

"Oh for the love of..." Severus felt more angry than before. "You do know how to wave a wand, don't you?"

"Unc..."

"Stop that nonsense now and stop whingeing. It might have worked with other people but not with me," he said rushedly. "Try a Finite first. You know how this works?"

Draco nodded quickly, paling further, Severus noticed and pointed his wand at Eleanor. "Finite omnis incantatis," he said quickly.

"Oh, the advanced version," Severus sneered.

"Father said..."

"I don't care, Draco," he spat, touching his hand to her forehead again. Still feverish, still warm. The cancellation of all spells had not worked on her. There were spells, curses, that resisted this. Not that it was a bad spell – it cancelled so many things, minor curses, all hexes, charms, even those supposedly long-lasting ones, like cosmetic charms, or memory charms, but not any Dark ones. He delved deep into his memory, those that he wanted to forget, had decided to forget but this was an emergency and truly neither the Ministry, nor anyone else could control what he said to someone with a wand.

"A swish and a figure-eight and say 'Incantare communicando," he hissed.

Draco nodded, a lock of his hair falling into his face and obscuring one of his eyes but Severus knew that the boy was nervous. And why the hell had nobody taught them that? If he had known, he sure would have never failed to explain to them when he had had the position of Defence against the Dark Arts Master. But this was a basic spell, third year at the latest. It was simple, it could be life-saving. And nobody had taught them that. Shame. Absolute shame.

"Incantare communicando," Draco almost shouted and flicked his wand just right. A moment later, there was a glow on the tip of his wand and a few sparks shot out of it – before they settled over Eleanor in the shaped of runes.

Severus scanned those quickly – it wasn't using magic. It was using what was stored in his mind. The boy, on the other hand, looked absolutely lost.

"Tell your father to send you back to school, preferably Beauxbatons, where you will learn something," he remarked sarcastically.

"I..."

"Shut up," he hissed again. This was a disgrace. That Lucius had dared to hit Eleanor with that. Tapeworm. In her guts. Slowly eating its way through her stomach, her intestines, everything. They had to act quickly, otherwise there wouldn't be anything salvage. She would bleed to death internally, the tapeworm having chewed his way through her.

"Banishing the tapeworm first, you have to destroy it but be careful, otherwise you will kill her."

"Tape..."

"Oh for fu...your sainted father used Eucestoda corporis devorat," he explained, wanting to hex that boy into the week after the next. "If you had paid attention either during Defence against the Dark Arts in your fourth or fifth year, or if you had listened to your Uncle Rabastan, you'd know what it does."

"Oh," Draco nodded. "Yes, it's eating..."

"Not time for reciting fact. Get rid of it!"

Draco nodded again and even through his haze of anger, worry and resentment towards the Ministry, he could see the boy being afraid. Very afraid. His voice dropped to a mere whisper but the moment he pointed his wand at the woman, and the moment, spoke the incantation, he had the necessary conviction in his eyes. "Evanesco eucestoda."

Eleanor's head dropped, became heavier in his lap, the temperature on her forehead sank immediately. "The Healing, now," he said urgently and when the boy fell on his knees next to him, he sent him a glance. "I know you know this one. I taught you," he said softly and – almost gently.

Draco nodded again and ran the tip of his wand over her stomach, chanting rapidly in Latin.

Severus felt the magic soaring through her, he felt the slight vibrations, the shifting of air around him, so subtly that he had never noticed it when he had been constantly surrounded by magic. So gentle a whisper that made him long for his wand, for his magic, for the marvellous things he could do with it – and had never truly appreciated. He longed to snatch up Draco's wand and if only to produce a few, small sparks with it. He couldn't. He truly, honestly couldn't. He knew rationally that nothing would happen if he tried. But suddenly, and for the first time since the verdict, he felt like he was missing a limp. That someone – the Wizengamot or the caster of the curse – had cut off a vital part of his body. Something, he felt in that moment of despair and fear for the woman he had come to like so much, that he couldn't live without. He was only faintly aware of Draco chanting and of Eleanor's body temperature returning to normal. He was only faintly aware of her hand twitching and of Draco sitting back on his heels, he was so deep in thought.

"What happened?" uttered directly from his lap pulled him out of his thoughts – and he looked down immediately to see Eleanor Callaghan looking up at him, puzzled and curious with her pale green eyes.

"I, erm, my father..." Draco began but Eleanor cut him off with her hand. She sat up slowly, grasping Severus's arm for support and leaning back against him after pulling down her skirt. None of them had thought to do so.

"I remember now. I remember where I have heard all those words before," she said slowly and very clearly. "I remember it more clearly. Your mother, Severus...she explained."

.

"How was he?" she asked anxiously.

"Fine," he replied.

"Fine?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

He grumbled and refused to look her in the eye.

"Tell me," repeated she.

"I think...I'm not sure what to think."

"Why?"

"Because...well, I thought that, you know, maybe...and now I'm not so sure. He asked...and she had to give him permission, really. Dunno."

"What? What? I don't understand," she shrieked.

"I don't understand either," said he, gloomily.

.

Hermione shut the book with a bang – angrily. This was absolutely no help at all. Absolute, utter rubbish. Whoever had written that book should be hexed severely. This was not helpful at all and she wanted her potions NEWTs. And this was relevant information that she couldn't find anywhere. Hadn't in the Hogwarts library, hadn't there. She knew it was in Moste Potente Potions – but that book was nowhere to be found. Madam Pince had looked as if she had been forced to eat a dozen lemons after Hermione had reported that that book was nowhere – and she had looked as if she had been forced to eat two dozen lemons when her own Summoning hadn't produced the book either. Someone had taken it. It made no sense that Snape had it – what would he do with it anyhow – but someone had taken it. Another student, Slughorn, anyone. It wasn't anywhere.

And she desperately needed to know how the Essence of Eternal Eloquence was made. There was nothing in the other books; it wasn't even mentioned. And this could very well be the difference between an Outstanding and an Exceeds Expectations. And she would not get her potions NEWT with an E only.

Hermione drew a deep breath and summoned a piece of parchment. It wouldn't hurt to send a missive to Slughorn and ask to borrow the book. Snape – he would know. He would know for sure. And he would probably even have the book – but she also knew that he would be her last resort. He would bite off her head if she came barging in like this again – asking, moreover, about a potion. No, she had learned from her mistakes – and if she went to ask him, it would only be because she couldn't find out any other way. She scribbled a quick note to Horace Slughorn, asking him about the potions, asking him, at the same time, about the magical properties of common cotton (she had read something – but couldn't remember), and tied the parchment to Harry's new owl's leg, a huge eagle owl that went by the name of Helmut (Merlin knew where he came up with that name) and sat back down in the library of Grimmauld Place. It was annoying to study like this – it was annoying to know that she couldn't ask the expert on potions. If he'd be just a tad nice, a tad more forthcoming, she wouldn't hesitate to apparate over and ask and ask and ask.

Even though – maybe – if she was smart – and if she made this right – there might be a possibility. Draco obviously spoke to him. Draco would know for sure if there was a way of getting him to talk to her, or to only answer her questions. Draco.

Hermione smirked slightly. She would just bite the bullet – and ask Draco.

.

"Is there tea?" Mrs Callaghan had asked and when he had nodded dumbly, his godfather had helped her up and had helped her into the kitchen. Had poured a cup for the old lady, one for himself and one for Draco. Had let her sit down, Severus opposite her and Draco stood, still a bit shaky opposite them. It had been difficult to get the tapeworm out and to heal her – to diagnose the spell. He had never seen it done before, had never even known that it was possible – and Severus, of course he had been annoyed that he hadn't known it. He usually was – and if he was right that he should have been taught this spell in his third year, he had all the more reason to be annoyed. But of course that had been Lupin – and he hadn't taught the Slytherins anything.

Didn't matter now. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets – didn't dare to pick up the cup of tea to take a sip. The woman was fine – but his adrenaline was high. And his anger at his father immeasurable. He had hurt this gentle, kind woman. Draco wouldn't return home, he decided in that moment. He would find a way, even without money, in case Severus wouldn't let him stay, or in case Mrs Callaghan wouldn't let him stay. Oh, he would ask her. Just a night or two – and he could make the tea. Could help her – especially, if she...well, if she remembered magic.

And now this kind, gentle woman remembered magic? His spell. The complete and utter Finite. It could undo not so perfect, weak Memory Charms.

"I...it was Kathleen," the old woman said hesitantly, her eyes closed, "She was so ill. Could not get up and coughed blood. Doctor's couldn't do anything. And then Eileen brought something, a potion, and waved her wand around. She sat me down then and when Kathy slept and she explained. She said she was a witch. And you, Severus, you were tiny. About a year old, I think. She explained about wizards and witches and all that. And that I should not tell anyone. And I didn't but she, I remember, came back a few days later and waved her wand in my face and I couldn't remember anything about it," she shook her head slowly. "You'rea wizard. And you're one too, Draco?"

Draco nodded slowly, his hands shaking a little more and he watched his godfather, putting his head into his hands and staring at the table cloth.

"What happened?" she asked Draco.

He shot a look at his godfather but the man didn't say anything, didn't look at him, didn't move at all. Draco cleared his throat. "My father cursed you," he began very quietly. "He is known to be hating Muggles..."

"Non-magic folk," Mrs Callaghan interrupted questioningly.

"Yes. He...it's a long story," he said softly. "And he cursed you, I don't know why, and then he left but we fixed you."

"He fixed you," Severus's head shot up, his eyes glimmering with anger and rage, "I could not fix you."

"Severus?" Mrs Callaghan asked but his godfather had already gotten up – and had, before either one of them could say another word, run out of the house.

"Draco, sit down and explain to me what this was about," she said softly.

"Er, Mrs Callaghan, I'm not..."

"Do it," she said sharply.

He nodded then, slowly, before he had a sudden idea. "I will if I can stay with you for a few nights."

This – surprisingly – made Mrs Callaghan chuckle. "Do you think I would let you back to a person like this? Who hurts innocent old people?"

Draco smiled back, grasped the cup of tea with both his hands and blew gently on the surface before he cleared his throat once more and began – hesitantly, to tell the story that Severus should have told.

.


	19. Lexical Relations

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Lexical relations: _

_Not only can words be treated as 'containers' or as fulfilling 'roles', they can also have 'relationships'. In everyday talk, we frequently gibe the meanings of words in terms of their relationships. If you were asked to give the meaning of the word_ conceal, _for example, you might simply reply 'it's the same as_ hide',_ or give the meaning of_ shallow _as 'the opposite of_ deep', _or the meaning of_ daffodil _as 'it's a kind of _flower'._ In doing so, you are characterizing the meaning of a word not in terms of its component features, but in terms of its relationship to other words. This procedure has also been used in the semantic description of languages and is treated as the analysis of lexical relations._

(Yule, 1985)

.

Severus Snape knew he would never get his magic back. It was a thing he had to accept, like people with an amputated arm or leg had to accept it. The phantom pain, however, was strong, seemed almost unbearable at that moment. In that moment when he all but ran through his house, missing his amputated magic dreadfully. Somewhere in his mind, he knew that it wasn't that bad altogether – he had Mrs Eleanor Callaghan, he had his house, he had his Linguistics textbooks and he made progress with them. He had furniture, he had curtains. He had a clean house. He had company. His godson had come to see him more often than ever before – came to him for advice. It should not hurt. It should not hurt as much as it did.

And his mother – the woman who had barely practised magic when he had been a child, had obliviated Eleanor. Back when he had been about a year old. Before he could remember. And then his mother had been alright, more or less, without magic. She had pushed it back and it hadn't been that which had killed her. She had managed – but, had it hurt this much? Had it hurt her to put away her wand? To forget that she was a witch a majority of the time? Or had it hurt her as much and had that been why she and his father had constantly shouted at one another? Was it that amputated magic phantom pain? Would it get less?

Somewhere in his mind, Severus knew it would. Somewhere in his mind, Severus knew that he would, in time, accept that his godson could fix something, or someone, with a flick of his wand and he couldn't.

But not at the moment. At the moment he was angry – terribly angry. Angry at himself for making such stupid decisions so early in his life, angry at those people who had used his weakness, angry at his parents, this house, his childhood. Angry at Draco for not being able to heal Eleanor without his help, angry at Lucius Malfoy for bringing them in this position in the first place.

Lucius Malfoy. He was deadly angry at Lucius Malfoy. That man, that conceited bastard, thought he could just go around hexing Muggles – his friend. Pretended to care for him and sell his books – and then something like that? Oh, Severus was so angry that he knew – the next time that man came to see him, he would let him in. And the pretty-boy-Malfoy would walk out with a broken nose. Which he could achieve without using a wand. Didn't need magic for that. He was building up his strength and thanks to Eleanor's cooking, he didn't get as tired as he had before.

He stormed upstairs. Hadn't, so far, done anything upstairs apart from destroying the furniture. And now seemed the right time to do something. Pent up emotion, anger. Anger. He had grabbed a hammer from the living room (where he had kept the tool box) and with a scowl, he rushed into his parents' former bedroom. It was empty, apart from the mattress with the money stuck in.

Severus glared at the wall – lifted the hammer – and not caring whether it was a bearing wall, he took a swing at it – and stuck the hammer into the wall.

.

"What's the boy doing now?" Eleanor groaned, hearing a loud bang from next door. She was just showing Draco one of the two former nurseries, the one that was, more or less, made up to be a guest room. She had listened to young guest, had been shocked to hear what had happened to Severus and so many things now made sense. But she wanted to console him, hug him, comfort him, and she knew she would – and would soon if that banging didn't stop. He was destroying things again, as he had destroyed his furniture. As he had destroyed so many things. It was, she thought, maybe a coping mechanism for him.

Another loud bang pulled her from her musing and she glanced sharply at Draco. "The bedding is in that cupboard. I'm sure you can figure out how it goes on there. And when you're done, I've got soup simmering in the kitchen. You've seen it probably, stir it."

"But..." she barely heard Draco over another bang.

"I don't think it's wise for you to go over there now. He won't hurt me, but he might hurt you. I've no magic. You do."

She nodded at him and left the upper floor. She would have probably have to use the stepladder outside again to get to him – but he needed someone now. God knew what he was doing. But if she had known – if he had told her right from the start, if that blasted forgetting-thing of Eileen's had not been, she would have been able to help him decently much sooner. Understand him and his behaviour better. Be there for him. Blasted Eileen.

Still, no need to cry over spilt milk. She had done her best to console a lonely, sweet man. And now, she would continue her work. Simple as that.

.

Molly Weasley had good ears. She couldn't help it, her hearing at always been exceptional. Growing up with two rambunctious, noisy twin brothers had helped that. Always when she had to listen to the quiet tones, over her loud brothers, it had come in very handy. It wasn't any different now. Of course things had grown rather quiet after the war – they had to. It had changed, so many things had changed. Her family was not the same, and not only because Fred was...well. Gone.

Ginny was...depressed since Harry had broken up with her. And up until she noticed that her hearing was still quite good, she hadn't even known why – had had no idea. Yes, she had listened to the two of them breaking up – but Harry's explanation – needing to find himself, not loving her enough, not being able to give her what she wanted, having grown apart – hadn't seemed plausible.

"What? What? I don't understand," Ginny had shrieked.

"I don't understand either," had Ron replied, rather gloomily, rather weirdly.

"Explain," Ginny had said.

"I was at Harry's – as you said I should," Ronny had said and she had been able to listen from the kitchen, "And Hermione was there. I thought it was strange, you know, her living with him. But they said they were trying to save, which actually made sense, and that they were just living together as friends. Like...nothing, you know. And I believed them for a moment because Harry and Hermione don't really make sense. I thought. But then..."

"You're not saying that they..." Ginny had whispered.

"I don't know, Gin. It was...I asked Harry if he wanted to go to the Quidditch Supply and then have a little game and he asked Hermione if it was alright."

"Oh," her daughter had said and Molly Weasley could sense how she was paling. "You think they..."

"I don't know. It does seem weird though. They don't really go together. And Hermione and me didn't work because, she said, we waited too long. But then what about them? I don't know."

"But she could be the reason, couldn't she?" Ginny had asked.

That had been enough for Molly – and she wasn't someone to make the same – obvious – mistake twice. She made up her mind, and because she was curious, she wrote a quick note and apparated away.

.

"Harry?" Hermione asked from her place in the kitchen where she had eaten a bit of noodle soup while reading yet another book.

"I'm back," he cried and came, frowning, into the kitchen. "Ron was very strange."

"Why? I mean, how?"

"Kept asking about what we do all day long. As if he didn't know what I do all day long. He knows I'm in Auror training," he shook his head. "What you do all day long. What we do in the evenings, what we do in the mornings, what we do on Saturdays and Sundays. It was as if he thought we were together after all."

Hermione scratched her chin, then sighed. "He probably does. You know him, he tried to be subtle."

"That wasn't subtle."

"It never was his strong suit," she chuckled mirthlessly. "What did you say?"

"Not much. What could I say? You're the same that you've always been, stuck in books," he grinned at her at that, "and that we share cooking duties and cleaning duties and that Kreacher helps a lot."

"And?"

"And he said nothing. He seemed to think a lot."

"Oh."

"I don't know. I don't think he'll think that. He would have said it straight out," said Harry.

"I can't go back anyway," replied Hermione calmly. "I got a letter from my parents and they say I should sell the house."

"Oh," Harry moved to her side and put his hands on her shoulders.

"I'm fine. It's the best decision they could make."

.

"Severus?" he heard from the door, destroying the wall between his former bedroom and his parents' former bedroom. He would make a spacious one. A big one. A huge one. One with a lot of light and windows. He swung around, the hammer hitting his thigh painfully and stared into the face of Eleanor. Worried. She looked definitely worried. Oh, the thin walls. He had forgotten about the thin walls. And his anger had almost all been put into the hole in the wall. He was, by now, only very angry at Lucius Malfoy still.

He, however, turned back to the wall – only a thin one, supported by wooden things holding up the attic (he would keep those in – didn't want the house to fall down), and hit it with his hammer again.

"You could have told me before, Severus," she said gently and he didn't notice her having come to stand behind him and putting her hand on his arm. "But I understand why you couldn't. Draco told me."

He stilled. His entire body rigid, his hammer in his hand hovering in mid air.

She knew. She knew. She knew.

"I can tell Draco to wipe my memories again. If you want it. I could forget about it again...but I don't honestly want to. I know what you did and I don't want to forget how brave you were. I don't want to forget what brought you here to me. It's God's will. It's the way he wanted it. The way it was meant to be, and I don't want to forget about it. It's all happening for a reason, Severus. I know you don't see it, you can't."

Severus remained very quiet but the hammer fell from his hand and with a thump on the ground. He could only look at her, in her pale green eyes. A slow, lazy tear fell from her right eye onto her wrinkled cheek, rolled down her pale skin, dropped onto the carpet.

"I wish you'd told me sooner, last year. I would've supported you. I could've helped. You didn't have to do it alone," she let go of his arm and rubbed it over her cheek, rubbed the tear away. "What you must've gone through."

He shook his head. Simply shook his head. Couldn't say anything.

"You were so alone. You must've...For heaven's sake, Severus," she sounded angry now and her pale green eyes twinkled madly. "Just one word. One single word! Why not? Do you think I would have told on you? Would have told anyone? Would have looked strangely at you? Not believed you?" Another tear trickled down her cheek. "If I had known..."

"I..." he tried to speak but there was a lump lodged in his throat and he could only look at her – helplessly.

"My silly boy," whispered Eleanor and the tiny woman stepped forwards again and wrapped him in her arms, pushed his head against her neck, rocked him a little, held him.

.

Somehow, she could just enter Grimmauld Place by pressing her wand against the door. The door basically swung open and since the house was very quiet, she stepped in. She knew she should have made her presence known, she knew she should have called out, or cried out for someone, tell them, if someone was home, that she was there.

It didn't look like someone was there, actually. That horrid house elf was nowhere to be seen and there weren't any voices or any other signs that someone was home. Nothing. Just quietness.

Maybe those two were out, if it was, in fact, as her children had said and Harry and Hermione did live together. She was, after all, a little like a mother to both of them. She was just seeing if the two of them were alright. After all, two such young children living together? Even if an house elf, it was bound to be difficult. Maybe, Molly thought, she would cook something for both of them. That house elf wasn't as good as she was, after all. Quickly, she went to the kitchen – and opened the door.

What she saw, made her, well, she wasn't sure what she felt. Hermione and Harry stood, together, in a close embrace, hugging, Harry's arms around Hermione and Hermione's arms around Harry. She gasped and her gasp was loud enough, apparently, to alert them to her presence. She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at both of them.

She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, lightly, on the ground.

"Hi Molly," Harry said, smiling a little uneasily.

"Hello Mrs Weasley," Hermione added, smiling just as uneasily.

"So what is going on here?" she found herself saying – coldly.

.


	20. The Dialect Continuum

_**The usual disclaimers apply.**_

_._

_The dialect continuum: _

_We can view regional variation [of language] as existing along a continuum, and not as having sharp breaks from one region to the next. A very similar type of continuum can occur with related languages existing on either side of a political border. As you travel from Holland to Germany, you will find concentrations of Dutch speakers giving way to areas near the border where the Dutch dialects and the German dialect are less clearly differentiated; then, as you travel into Germany, greater concentrations of distinctly German speakers occur. Speakers who move back and forth across this border, using different varieties with some ease, may be described as bidialectical (i.e. 'speaking two dialects'). Most of us grow up with some form of bidialectalism, speaking one dialect 'in the street' and having to learn another dialect 'in the school'. _

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

The light filtered dimly through the curtains that Eleanor had put up there. He disliked them, but it was what she had leftover and she had said it would do for a bedroom. There were flowers on them. And he could hardly afford to buy new curtains after he had bought that bed as well – a large one, a double bed. Simple, and with the new mattress close to the floor and rather comfortable. He hadn't taken Draco this time – he had gone with Eleanor alone. More room in the car for the bed and while he understood his godson's motivation at moving out from his parents, he could not understand his motivation at moving in with his neighbour Eleanor Callaghan.

Eleanor had tried to explain – but he hadn't wanted to listen. In his own right, he knew that Draco wanted to rebel and sooner or later, he would get tired of the drudgery of Muggle live – even if it was no drudgery. He talked to Eleanor nevertheless. Unwillingly at first, but that woman had the knack of asking the right questions at the right time, in the right tone of voice, with the right expression on her face. He had told her about Hogwarts, not everything, but about Dumbledore and Eleanor had been angry at the man, had demanded to see him, had demanded to ask him for an explanation. And that had been when he had told her about that night. About that night and Draco's involvement and about what he had been asked to do.

The first time that he had talked about this. The first time he had been forced to tell the truth and he had done so without leaving out anything. It had taken more than two hours and had ended, as most of their talks did, with her beginning to cry, muttering something in her broadest Irish and wrapping him in her arms. As always, he had been stiff at first and after a moment, he had melted in her embrace.

But on this morning, he had no longing to revisit any of those talks in his mind. He didn't want to think about it. Not that morning. Not when he had to prepare himself mentally for that day – a few hours away – when he had been forced (more or less) to attend that Christmas dinner with Mrs Callaghan and her entire family. And his godson. The present he had had bought for her was safely in his new bedside table. And for Draco – oh, Eleanor had insisted she get him something. As a godfather to a godson. And as a godfather to a godson, he had bought him, on Eleanor's insistence, a set of tools. Muggle tools. She had said that Draco was fascinating by fixing things and building things and this would be the right gift.

He wasn't sure that was right – but he had no other idea. And it would be fine. He was a Muggle now. What other present could represent that better than a set of Muggle tools? Things that wouldn't be needed if he learned to wave his wand properly.

Didn't matter. He would show up, would hand over his presents, would leave again. Maybe eat a little. Then leave again. Christmas did not mean anything to him and he had refused to go to church the night before with Eleanor (and she had dragged Draco with her, apparently). It just did not seem right. It would not have been right. And if she forced his godson, it was all the more rebelling against his family. Didn't truly matter.

Severus opened his eyes slowly. It was already a bit later in the day than his usual wake up time, he thought, judging from the light that fell in through the flowery curtains. He had slept better since he had torn down the wall, since nothing reminded him of his parents anymore. Since this was his room and his room only. With a huge bed, flowery curtains, a cupboard for his few clothes, a bedside table and a still empty book shelf. Well, almost empty. He had the linguistics textbooks on it, and another book Eleanor had found about it in her attic. He would definitely acquire more in due time. Even though, it seemed Eleanor had planned his future already and it wasn't anything he could possibly object to.

She had dragged him to a weird sort of office building, to a person who seemed overly maudlin, had helped him fill in forms, had gone to the bank with him, had him open an account, and apparently, the social now gave him money. Every month. And as if that hadn't been enough, Eleanor had made him apply for a mature student scholarship. Whatever that meant.

And all that in less than a week. He had heard back from those University people – those he had applied to, and apparently, as the letter had said, he was entitled to begin as soon as term began in the new year. It had all been too quick in his opinion, but as Eleanor had said, 'at least you have something to think about then and studying to do and won't destroy your house even further'.

So, by January, he would be a student again. What utter insanity.

.

Hermione looked – with trepidation – at the tree that she and Harry had put up a few days ago. The day, to be precise, after Molly Weasley had come invading their home (she thought of Grimmauld Place as her home already), had demanded answers and had not truly been happy by what they had told her.

What was there to tell? She had been infinitely sad that her parents wanted her to sell the house she had grown up in, this had sealed the fact that they would probably never return from Australia, that she was cut off from her parents. Harry, the one he truly considered family, had consoled her. Yes, with a hug. They weren't snogging, they weren't shagging on the kitchen floor, they had just been hugging. Nothing more, nothing less. But Molly Weasley had put her nose in, Molly Weasley had demanded what they thought they were doing, lying to them (which they weren't), and had left in a huff. Not to be seen ever after.

What was the sense, Hermione wondered, not for the first time, in asking a myriad of questions and not waiting for an answer? Well, they had been prepared to explain, again, that there was nothing between them except friendship, but she had only left afterwards.

However, both she and Harry had sent Christmas presents (with an attached note each) to the Burrow, to everyone. And they had sent a gift each, not together. She had written to Ron, he had written to Ginny. To Arthur, to Molly, even to George. But – under the Christmas tree were only the presents that she and Harry had put there for each other and four others – two with the stamp of WWW (apparently from George) and two that she didn't know the origin of. And by the looks of it, she had gotten a gift certificate from Flourish and Blott's from Harry – again. Well, it didn't truly matter. She had her NEWTs to think about, she had her future to think about. And if she was being honest with herself, some of the Wizarding World had lost its appeal.

It was, she thought as she sat there underneath the lights of the Christmas tree, never changing. Things always remained the same. They had fought a major battle, a major war against the Dark, and so many people these days just went back to their normal lives. Pretend nothing had ever happened. Pretended that they hadn't thrown out one of their bravest and smartest and brightest, pretended that Severus Snape had never happened, pretended that all was well. Nothing was well at all. There were nights when she couldn't wake Harry from his nightmares and there were nights when she wouldn't wake from her nightmares. There were days when she didn't want to open a single book to learn yet another useless fact. But she couldn't pretend that all was well.

Molly, who had lost so much during the war, who had lost a son, had two injured severely, had almost lost her husband, thought it was more important to be scandalised that the two of them might be together, than to be scandalised about the fact that half of Diagon Alley and all of Knockturn Alley still lay in ruins, that so many things had to be rebuilt, that few people went out after dark still. And she was more concerned about the status of their relationship than about George who, she knew, was at this very moment, growing a very serious addiction to various mood-lightening potions and Muggle anti-depressants but then again, Hermione guessed that Molly didn't even know about that. To be fair, the woman would probably take her son home, lock him into his room and wouldn't let him out until she was sure that he wasn't taking anything stronger than Pepper-Up Potion anymore.

Still – after that incident, Harry had reset the wards. Wards that allowed nobody to enter but the two of them. All the others would have to wait at the door, like in a standard Muggle household. Ring the bell, knock the knocker, and one of them had to answer the door. The Floo was warded as well now. Better that way.

No, but all of that considered, she wasn't sure whether she wanted to work for the Ministry, work for those people who had pulled the rug our from under Snape's feet and who had, stupidly, allowed Hestia Jones to be Kissed even before she could give hints of a counter-curse (oh, Hermione had looked in her spare time. But she couldn't even find the curse itself much less a counter-curse.

Draco, good person that he was trying to become (or so it seemed) had even written to Harry – telling Harry just two days before that Snape had now a Muggle account. And Harry, with that information, had run to Gringotts – and then to the Ministry. Simple way to let him have money he deserved. And simple way of the Ministry, she thought, to soothe their guilt. To iron out all the bad feelings that they had concerning Severus Snape. And even the protests had stopped.

"Lucius Malfoy is brought before the Wizengamot again," Harry ran into their living room, panting.

"What?" Hermione asked immediately, pulled from his musings.

"He attacked Muggles. You remember the old woman that Snape talked to?" asked Harry and she nodded in response, "well, she's one of them. Happened last week. After that, there were some more."

"What? Why? Doesn't make sense. He paid so much money to be kept out of Azkaban. And how do you know this on Christmas morning?"

"Kingsley wrote. Here," he handed her a parcel, "gift for the two of us, apparently, note attached. She plucked that out of his fingers and read furiously.

_Harry,_

_we could arrest Lucius Malfoy last night when he attacked an elderly Muggle woman. Now with the testimony we have from Draco Malfoy and the other Muggle he attacked (apparently Draco is living with her now), we can bring charges forward. It remains mysterious and Lucius says nothing. It almost looks as if he is under a powerful Imperius Curse, but we're testing for it. If you like, you could come in some time this afternoon. I know it's Christmas but if you're interested, he will be on the second floor for questioning before we try and break the curse if there is one. _

_Happy Christmas_

_K. _

Hermione arched her eyebrows. "Draco is living with Snape's neighbour?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, but I know that I want to see this. You coming?"

"You bet," she grinned determinedly. "Happy Christmas, Harry."

"Yeah, let's hope so."

.


	21. Synonyms

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Synonyms: Are two or more form with very closely related meaning, which are often, but not always, intersubstitutable in sentences. Examples are the pairs_ broad-wide, hide-conceal, almost-nearly, cab-taxi, liberty-freedom, answer-reply.

_It should be noted that the idea of 'sameness of meaning' used in discussing synonymy is not necessarily 'total sameness'. There are may occasions, when one word is appropriate in a sentence, but its synonyms would be odd. For example, whereas the word answer fits in this sentence:_ Cathy had only one answer correct on the test, _its near-synonym, _reply, _would sound odd. Synonymous forms may also differ in therms of formality. The sentence_ My Father purchased a large automobile _seems much more serious than the following, casual version, with four synonymous replacements: _My dad bought a big car.

(Yule, 1985)

.

Her heels clicked loudly on the ground. The Ministry had not changed. There was another fountain, but they still had to have their wands checked and the sort of gloomy, bureaucratic feeling was still there. She inched a little closer to Harry – there were so many memories in her mind, but at that moment, it was the battle down there – against the man she was about to see. She wasn't afraid of him anymore. She had survived him, she had survived the torture that he had made sure she could get. She had been allowed to keep her wand. She wasn't on her own and she didn't feel on her own.

It had nothing to do with the Auror-School-Robes Harry had put on (though why he had done that, she didn't know) but more with the fact that she believed, now more than ever, that she would wield her wand with security. That Lucius Malfoy could not possibly harm her.

But that didn't stop the memories from resurfacing.

"Okay?" Harry asked as they took the lift.

"Yeah, absolutely," she smiled at him. "I'm merely curious. And remembering a few things."

"I do too," he nodded compassionately. "Can't return to certain places without remembering, can you?"

"No," she laughed a little. "Well, I don't plan on returning here often."

"It's gotten better for me," he answered quickly. "Having to come here often."

She grasped his hand and squeezed it gently. "I'm just curious to see Malfoy now."

Harry send her a smirk. "Do you think he's pretending again?"

She shrugged non-committally. "Would he risk everything just to torture some Muggles?"

"That seems to be the leading question," replied Harry and let her step out of the lift before he followed. In silence, the only noise Hermione's heels on the ground. He led her to the room Kingsley had specified and opened the door for her, letting her walk in first.

In front of her was a huge window – one of those that Muggles used as well. Perfectly clear on one side, a mirror on the other. But while Muggles used technology, wizards merely charmed the window. Through this window, she saw Lucius Malfoy, slumped over in his chair, his long hair obscuring his face, hanging limply over his shoulders.

"He doesn't look like Malfoy," Hermione said before she could stop herself – but it was true. There seemed to be something defeated about him, an air so completely not like himself. Weak. That man looked weak.

"No, he doesn't," she whipped her head around and saw the Minister of Magic lean against the wall, his hand rubbing over his bald head. He seemed paler than usual. And no smile on his face. Not even the hint of one.

"What's happening?"

"We know now that...there is an Imperius on him. We have developed better testing methods of course after that debacle after the first war. And the development for now is so far that we could even see who put it on him..."

"Really?" asked Harry, astonished. "We haven't learned that yet."

"It is quite advanced," Shacklebolt chuckled mirthlessly.

"So you know for sure that he was under an Imperius?" asked Hermione.

"Yes," the Minster replied. "It's still on him though."

"Why? And who did it?"

"Well...that is the question, isn't it? We could pinpoint the Imperius on a person. But...you see, it is quite the riddle. No pun intended."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Because..." he shook his head, closed his eyes and scratched his head as he shook it tiredly.

.

With a long-suffering sigh, Severus picked up the two presents he had wrapped in old newspaper (he had no other paper and he would most certainly not buy some. That was a waste of money) and himself, wrapped in the leather jacket, and left the house. Christmas. What a stupid thing to celebrate. Well, maybe not for Christians but what was the sense of pretending to like people, to like family, on that day only? It usually, he had experienced, ended in a fight. And in fists flying. It usually ended in shouting and once, in the Christmas tree being set on fire. He had no longing for that – and Eleanor had mentioned that her family would be present as well. He did not want to see another family fighting. Had been hard enough to see his own like that.

But he had gone, after all, to some great length to acquire both their presents and he would hand them over. Even if there was rain coming down, cold and angrily, even if he truly did not want to go. Even if he dreaded having to stay longer than it took to hand over the presents.

He knew he was a bit early, earlier than she had said to come, but maybe, this was better anyone. He could leave again before her family arrived. Still, he braced himself as he walked the couple of steps to Eleanor Callaghan's house. He didn't remember any of her children, not even dimly, faintly. He could, if h waded deep in his memory, remember flashes of Mrs Callaghan. Nothing more.

"There you are," he heard his godson before the door was actually flung open and he looked into the oddly agitated face of Draco Malfoy.

"Obviously," he drawled and as Draco stepped aside, he went into the house, hanging his leather jacket, as Eleanor had taught him, on the hook in the hall.

"Father was arrested," his godson said urgently, whispering. "I got an owl from the Minister yesterday night. It wasn't the best idea to send an owl, Mrs Callaghan didn't mind but she was busy keeping Aideen away from it."

Severus arched a quizzical eyebrow. "She's Mrs Callaghan's granddaughter and goes to Uni in Manchester so she came here earlier than her family," explained Draco. "And Shacklebolt said that Father was probably under the Imperius Curse."

"And who," Severus sneered coldly, "would be powerful enough, or getting close enough to your father to curse him?"

"The same person that hexed you? I don't know. He wrote that he doesn't know either. But if Father was under the Imperius..."

"He claimed it before."

"He doesn't claim it now, the Minister said," Draco replied in a whisper.

Severus shook his head and, just remembering what he came to do, shoved one of the presents in his godson's hands. "That's for you," he said gruffly – in a normal voice, alerting, he hoped, Eleanor to his presence, and getting this over as quickly as possible. He didn't care about Lucius. That man, whether under the Imperius (which he doubted) or not (which he believed) had enough on his plate to deserve a broken nose. And he truly did not want to know. He had nothing to do with the Wizarding World and their rotten system of justice anymore. He had his godson, which he knew, was, more or less, whether he wanted or not, in his life now and that was the extent of it. Maybe, he thought suddenly, he should ask for an Obliviate. Or a memory-altering spell. Forgetting he had ever been a Wizard.

No, that was a silly idea. A very silly and stupid idea.

He almost missed the look of utter surprise on his godson's face, he almost missed the shining eyes and he almost missed how Draco, despite his upbringing, despite his being raised as a pureblood prince, sat down on the floor, with a glimmer in his hopeful, happy, warm grey-blue eyes, looked up at him and began, when Severus did not react at all, to rip apart the newspaper, to rip it from the present. In all honesty, Severus was close to reprimanding the boy for ripping perfectly good newspaper, which could still be used to make fire, but he stopped himself.

The boy's eyes were huge, his mouth stood open, he had a generally very unbecoming expression on his face and stared up, from his position on the floor, up at his godfather.

"Uncl...Severu...I, er, I don't know what to...say," he stuttered.

"Thank you is usually appropriate," he sneered.

Draco shook his head and jumped up, looked for a moment as if he wanted to hug his godfather (which of course, was ridiculous, Severus thought) and after an awkward moment, grabbed his hand and shook it fervently. "Thank you. Thank you. This is an amazing present. Thank you. I, erm..."

"Yes, quite alright," drawled Severus.

"Is that Severus I hear? Aideen, come meet Severus," he heard the clattering of Eleanor's shoes on the floor and a moment later, he was in the hug of the older woman (had she pushed Draco away? Had he stepped aside?) and slowly, but as quickly as he could, he found his own arms wrapped around the older woman.

"Happy Christmas, Severus," she whispered in her ear.

He coughed softly, still in her arms, "The same to you," he disentangled himself quickly – but not quickly enough – and rapidly, he pushed the other present in her hands. "This is for you."

"We're still in the hall," Eleanor laughed, "come in first. Have a cup of tea. Aideen! Make us a cup, will you?"

"Yeah, yeah," he heard another voice and as he was pushed towards the living room, a young face appeared in the door to the kitchen. She looked similar to Eleanor. Or to what Eleanor seemed to have looked like about sixty years ago. Fifty-five years. Her hair was auburn, her eyes a pale green, her nose turned up slightly and her smile playing on her lips.

"So you're the famous Severus from next door," she said cheekily, winking at him. "Gran can't stop talking about you."

"Stop that, Aideen, tea now. You're parents will be here soon..."

"And all the aunts and uncles," she rolled her eyes good-naturedly but disappeared into the kitchen again, as he stepped more fully into the living room. He wouldn't have paid it any mind, actually, that young woman, if he had not caught a glimpse of his godson – enraptured, he thought, was the right word. Maybe it was the present, as it was currently, the entire tool-box pressed against his chest (it was heavy though) but he doubted it. His eyes were shining even brighter and he wore the silliest smile he had ever seen on a Malfoy's face (even sillier than the one Lucius had worn when Draco had been born). Plus – he still looked at the door to the kitchen.

"Draco, would you like to help Aideen make the tea?" Eleanor asked with a knowing smirk – and, the tool box still being cradled like a baby, he dashed off towards the kitchen, distinctly uncharacteristic for a Malfoy – any Malfoy. "Oh dear," laughed the woman, "started yesterday afternoon when she came here. He was on her heels the entire time. I haven't had the heart yet to tell him that she might have a boyfriend at Uni."

Severus scowled. Why did people think he cared? He did not. He had his own problems to think about. His own troubles. He looked at the pictures on the walls – as if he had never seen them. And honestly, he probably hadn't truly seen them. Glanced past them. But whenever he had been in Eleanor's living room, he had been busy with other things – and most of their time was spent in her kitchen anyway. Rows and rows of children smiling in the camera, younger children, older children. Most with the auburn hair and the pale green eyes, some with freckles, some without. Some with teeth, some without. Astonishing, he thought. She had her entire family on her wall.

"Oh!" he was pulled out of his observance by Eleanor – hugging him again. "You shouldn't have. It must have been expensive..."

"It's nothing," he waved it away and once more pried her fingers from his back.

"I can't wear that. That's cashmere. You shouldn't have spent that much money on an old woman like me."

He growled – deep in his throat – and plucked the shawl from her fingers (she had felt the material, just as he had) and, hating that he had to do it this way, wrapped the wrap-thing around her shoulders and glared at her. "Keep it on."

.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

"The wand is," Kingsley sighed, "Bellatrix Lestrange's."

"But she's dead. She was buried. Well, her body was burned, then buried. She's dead, or isn't she?" Hermione asked, feeling panic rising in her chest.

"She is dead. Her wand was safe in the Department of Mysteries since the Final Battle. And there was no sign of a Horcrux, so don't even ask. We can't know, of course, but we did cast spells at Hogwarts and its grounds and there was no sign of spirits of any form, apart from the ghosts, obviously. We had to cast those spells because of, you-know-who. Nothing. We can safely assume that Lestrange is dead. We had her body, we burned her body, as you said, and we buried the ashes at three different locations. Her wand was there though and..."

"Is it still there?" Hermione asked. "Because if it wasn't her, and her wand was there, someone could have..."

"Taken it, yes. But it's still there. It's a mystery."

Harry cleared his throat, scratched his head and pushed his glasses up his nose. "So what you're saying is that someone took dead Bella's wand, cast the spell and brought it back?"

"Yes," Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed tiredly.

"Do you even protect this bloody building at all?" Hermione exploded. "First the thing with Hestia Jones and Snape and now this? Do you even know what's going on in here?"

"Not at the moment, no," he shook his head and hung it in defeat.

.


	22. Antonyms

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Antonyms: Two forms with opposite meanings are called antonyms, and commonly used examples are the pairs _quick-slow, big-small, long-short, rich-poor, happy-sad, hot-cold, old-young, male-female, true-false, alive-dead.

_Antonyms are usually divided into two main types, those which are 'gradable', and those which are 'non-gradable'. Gradable antonyms, such as the pair_ big-small, _can be used in comparative constructions like_ bigger than-smaller than. _Also, the negative of one member of the gradable pair does not necessarily imply the other. For example, if you say _that dog is not old,_ you do not have to mean_ that dog is young. _With non-gradable antonyms, also called 'complementary pairs', comparative constructions are not normally used (the expressions _deader _or_ more dead _sound strange), and the negative of one member does not imply the other. For example,_ that person is not dead _does indeed mean that person is alive. So, the pairs_, male-female _and_ true-false _must also be non-gradable antonyms, whereas the others in the list above are gradable. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

Severus still sat with Eleanor on the couch, her wrapped in her new shawl and leaning slightly against him, just sitting in silence. He couldn't exactly pinpoint what he was feeling but he could feel his lungs fill with more air than usual, he could breath deeper than he could ever remember breathing and her scent was in his nose. Familiar by now, even smelling of freshly baked bread when he knew for a fact that she hadn't made any. Today, it was slightly different, like the meal that was cooking in the kitchen, roast, maybe. Christmas pudding. But she smelled like Eleanor and he liked to have that smell in his nose. He was, for a moment only, tempted to wrap his arm around her like the shawl, the wrap, was wrapped around her shoulders – but he kept back. He couldn't – he shouldn't.

He still sat with her, in silence, when the doorbell rang a few times. She sighed by his side and slowly lifted her head from his shoulder.

"They're all my children and I love every single one of them but I am getting too old to be cooking for this entire family. And to be hosting those events," she whispered consiprationally, and with the hint of a smile and another sigh, got up from the couch. "You stay there and you don't move. Don't even dare to think about escaping. I've told all of them so much about you and they're all dying to meet you."

Severus sat stock still. His back was rigidly straight. He had been comfortable enough with only Eleanor and Draco and the basically invisible Aideen (who, he had to admit, had, despite the almost same colouring little to no resemblance to Lily Evans – not that he wanted to think about her at all) but now, with more people coming...he wasn't sure. He didn't react well to people. He never had. He disliked many people. He disliked having to make conversation, of being looked at, being asked things. He more than disliked it. He detested it, hated it.

And yet, he found himself still sitting. Still sitting when there were voices in the hall, laughter, the sound of hugging (at least he thought he could hear the hugs but he wasn't sure) and a moment later, as he tried hard not to look at the smiling children on the wall, there was someone entering.

"Oh, that must be Severus," a female voice and he tried hard not to look. This woman, and she was about fifty, he suspected, did not look at all like Eleanor. She had dark hair piled on top of her head, blue eyes, pale skin.

"You did come, Mam wasn't sure," another female voice.

"Severus? I remember him. He was a tiny thing. What do you mean, he's here?" a male voice.

"Don't mind them," the first female said and as she stepped towards the sofa he sat on, raised her hand towards him. "I'm Kathleen. Pleasure to finally meet you again. I remember you as a little boy, actually. But I think I left home by the time you were, what? Around two, two and a half?"

Severus felt – he didn't know how he felt. Strange. All those people coming in, or at least half of them, would remember him as a little boy. A boy he couldn't even remember himself. And didn't want to imagine. However, he shook the woman's hand and nodded curtly.

"Children, stop pestering him," Eleanor called from the hall and stuck her head into the room. "Kathleen, Mary, I need your help with the gravy, Stephen, tell Severus about that thing you were studying, Mark, Thomas, you set the table and make sure there are enough chairs, Imogen, Suzie, Chris, Brian, Lizzie, you help. Children? You can go play in the backyard until it's time for dinner. Now off you go."

Severus watched as eight adults and about two dozen children (or so it felt) between the age of about 15 and maybe two, walked out of the living room. This house was so small – and yet, he knew that it had two rooms more than his own – and that Eleanor had lived there with her husband and five children. Had brought up five children in that house. He had difficulties keeping track of all the names but there was a man, and he supposed it was Stephen, sat next to him and a woman, apparently his wife, sat down as well.

"I'm Sarah," she smiled. "Stephen's wife. I think you met Aideen? She's ours. And Brian's ours as well. It can be a bit much, I suppose but it's only for two days a year, really, that we all get together. Usually, it's only a few of us. Stephen and me live down in London but Aideen goes to Uni up here..."

"Sarah," her husband admonished mildly with a smile. "So my mother says you're going to be a mature student?"

Severus felt – very much – like a student already. The man was rather imposing. Tall – with a well-fitting suit, brown hair, and brown eyes. He smiled rather benevolently but he felt like he was being interviewed. That man was about twenty years older than himself. Or maybe not quite. Didn't matter. So this was the man whose books he used. Whose jacket he wore. Was he really that tall himself? He had to be, he thought.

"Yes," he said only.

"That's a good way. And Mother said you're especially interesting in Linguistics?"

"Yes," he said again.

"It's a fascinating subject. Mother did mention that I teach it?"

"No," he shook his head. He hadn't known.

"I do. In London. It really is fascinating and logical. Most of it."

"I thought so," he muttered.

"If you're starting on that again," his wife rolled her eyes and punched his side gently, "I'll go and help your mother."

"She dislikes it," he chuckled mildly when they both looked as she walked away. "And I suppose it must be boring after a while for others not interested. But I take it you are."

"I am," he said, feeling a little more comfortable now that the woman had left and it was only him and the man – and occasionally someone with plates and forks and knifes and spoons and chairs coming in and setting them on – and around the table. A huge table.

"I could send you more books. Those textbooks are usually terribly expensive and I always get the odd copy for free. I'll tell Mam to phone me up when you get your schedule and the list of books you will use and I'll send them up," he smiled again and it was almost his mother's smile. But – what was this? Offering books? For free? His Slytherin side, his spy side paid immediate attention. What was the man getting out of it? He couldn't fathom it. Books, just sending books? To someone he didn't really know?

"Don't worry, as I said, I always get copies for free and most of those books, I own anyway," he waved his too obvious doubts away. "And besides, we are all grateful to you."

"Grateful?" he choked on his own spit. "Why?"

"Mam hasn't been so happy on the phone for quite a while. You give her a new purpose. Aideen is close but she only rarely visits and we were all concerned that she could get lonely and I suppose she was. And now you're here and she's blossoming. She couldn't stop talking about you, you know. And we are grateful. And...I do have one favour. We're a bit worried about her from time to time after that cancer thing two years ago..."

Severus's mouth almost fell open. He was – what? Cancer thing? He must have looked too obvious – again and Stephen Callaghan rolled his eyes.

"She didn't tell you about that, did she? Typical Mam. They found a lump in her breast about two years ago. Doctor said they found it all but...well, none of us are close and we can't always drive up here though we do try to take turns. So, if I could call you once in a while, to hear an unbiased opinion on how she is...?"

Severus could only stare. He wasn't sure what was going on. Too much information all at once. Cancer. Calling. Gratefulness? Expressed gratefulness? Too much to take in. Too much for now.

"Severus? I may call you Severus, you don't mind?"

He caught himself. "No, I don't mind but...I don't have a phone at the moment," something inside of him explained. The rest of his brain was reeling. Cancer. Expressed gratefulness. Those people were grateful that he moved in again. They said so. Eleanor with cancer. Eleanor with cancer. Grateful. He wanted to clear his head, wanted to listen to what the man said but couldn't. He swallowed hard and stood up, as if in trance.

"I, er," he said, "thank you. I will be back in a moment," said Severus and fled from the living room.

.

"I had Bellatrix Lestrange's wand," Hermione said quickly.

"Yes but we could identify the one she used at the final battle. And that was the one used. The one she had before she stayed in Azkaban was snapped. And then you had hers, and the one she used, was used, to put the Imperius on Lucius Malfoy," explained Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"But how..." asked Harry.

"There is a log and people have to sign when they enter the room where the wands are stored. We keep the snapped ones in there as well. And the log seems to be alright. Not a lot of traffic. And why should anyone go in there? The only ones are a few Aurors which we are checking out at the moment..."

"Wouldn't Malfoy remember who put the curse on him? And if Hestia Jones was acting under the Imperius as well, is she still on it?"

"Technically," Kingsley replied, "she would be. But we tested her and she isn't. So either it's worn off or she hadn't been on its influence, or it's been removed."

"That's a lot of possibilities," Hermione remarked darkly.

"Yes. Indeed. We have basically nothing to go on. All we know is that it seems someone is out there who wants to harm former Death Eaters that got off lightly."

"It makes no sense. Who would be ruthless enough to endanger Muggles and at the same time, wants to harm former Death Eaters? Who would want to do that? It made, more or less sense to strip Snape of his magic – but Malfoy?" Harry argued.

"I agree," Shacklebolt said. "I will keep you informed and Harry, if you could somehow try and contact Draco Malfoy? I think it would be beneficial for him to be here when we lift the curse, as a sort of character witness, explain if there are other underlying curses which we haven't found yet. Doesn't have to be today."

"What do you intend to do about all this then?" Hermione snapped. "Or will this keep happening?"

Kingsley glared at her as if she had put her finger in a deep wound. "We tightened security," he replied shortly.

She arched her eyebrows but nodded and with a last glance at Malfoy, she left the room. She didn't want to be there. It was all a shambles. Someone was torturing Muggles only to bring Death Eaters out of Wizarding Society, someone had taken Snape's magic from him for nothing. And this place didn't know who it was.

It couldn't be Bellatrix Lestrange. That woman was dead – and she believed that she could have never kept quiet all those months. Lestrange was a woman of action. She wanted people to know that she was torturing others, that she was on the prowl, basically. That she was active. Keeping still for such a long time just didn't seem like her style. Besides, she was dead. According to Kingsley, spells had confirmed that. Who else?

She rifled through her mind – who would want that? When now the Wizarding World was pretending everything was well? Oh, well, maybe someone who couldn't stand the thought of their world to just returning to normal? Who? Man? Woman? She would have to sit down at home. Write lists. Find out as much as she could. This was most certainly curious – and would take her mind of her incessant studying.

.


	23. Family Relationships

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Family relationships: Looking at the Indo-European family tree, one might ask how it can be determined that these language groups are 'related'. On the face of it, two languages, such as Italian and Hindi would seem to have nothing in common. One way to see the relationships more clearly is by looking at records of an older generation, like Latin and Sanskrit, from which the modern languages developed. For example, if we use familiar letters to write out the words for father and brother in Sanskrit, Latin and Ancient Greek, some common features become apparent: _

_Sankskrit...Latin .. .Greek..._

_. ..pitar . . .pater . . .pater...(father)_

_.bhrathar...frater...phrater...(brother)_

_It is, however, extremely unlikely that exactly the same forms will regularly turn up, but the fact that close similarities occur (especially in the probably pronunciations of the forms) is good evidence for proposing a family connection. _

(Yule, 1985)_  
_

.

As Severus sat outside, having ignored the worried glances of Eleanor, the puppy dog eyes Draco was making at her granddaughter and the curious stares of her family, he was tempted to just use the stepladder that stood against the wall that separated his garden with hers and walk into his back door, up the stairs and put his head underneath his pillow and drown out the noise he would indubitably hear from next door – and ignore Christmas. He wanted to get away from those happily playing children who didn't seem to care about their good clothes, away from those staring people. Away from those that looked at him like was the newest animal in a zoo, like he was a part of a freak show.

But as he sat outside, trying to clear his head from the spinning thoughts, trying to let the cold, more or less clear air was over him, he caught a glimpse of Eleanor in the kitchen, talking to her daughter Kathleen and her daughter Mary and what he thought was her daughter-in-law Imogen and smiled and showed off the shawl she had yet to take off her shoulders. She seemed dreadfully proud of it – even from what he could see in that moment.

That was, he knew, why he stayed, sitting there, filling his lungs with cold, more or less fresh air. Cancer? He had read about that disease. He knew what a wicked thing it was. He knew it could come back any given day. He knew that it could kill. He knew it could take her away from him.

And, much as he was loath to admit it – that thought scared him. It made him feel small and helpless. Lose her after he had lost so much already.

The children squealed.

He didn't want to admit it to himself – but he knew deep inside that she had been the one that had more or less rescued him. She had been the one with the cup of tea handy and later, the cup of tea and the lent ear. She was the one who listened and didn't judge. She was the one who made sure he was fine. She had been the one to safe him, help him fill out the forms, get furniture, help him settle in. Deep inside, he knew that he would not be sitting there like this, knowing he had a large bed and pillows under which he could hide his head, knowing he had books that helped him study, knowing he had a table he could sit at. Deep inside he knew he would still be a pile of self-pitying mess if she hadn't offered him that first cup of tea. Maybe, he thought, his house would have absolutely no walls anymore if it hadn't been for her.

The children still squealed.

That woollen set he had bought her was only a small part of what he truly owed her. Only one more person he owed. Nw that he had paid everyone back, that he had fulfilled everything that was expected of him, there was another one he owed – only this time, it didn't feel quite so terrible. No. For the first time in his life, he wanted to repay what had been given to him. Wanted to pay is debts to her in any way he could. And if it made her happy for him to be stared at like the Elephant Man, he would endure it.

The children squealed.

"There you go," said a kind voice next to him and a cup was pushed in his hands. "I know it's just overwhelming."

He looked up to see the other daughter, not the girl his mother had apparently saved, sitting next to him on the other chair provided. She pulled a cigarette from a pack and lit it, taking a deep drag. "I'm Mary. I'm the second youngest. Only Mark is younger than me. Stephen is the eldest, then Kathy, then Thomas, me and Mark." She put the cigarette between her teeth and nodded towards the children playing. "I don't think it would do much good for me to introduce you to every one of them. We're a big family. Mark's the only one that doesn't have a child. Kathleen's eldest is in there and I believe you've met Aideen, she's Stephen's. The only one not here is Flora, she's Brian's twin sister. She's pregnant and couldn't make the trip. Imagine a child with 17 having a child." She chuckled and flicked a bit of ash in an ashtray she kept in her hand, "Runs in the family, I suppose. Oh, would you like one?" She offered him the pack of cigarettes and he shook his head immediately.

"And your godson likes my niece, eh? Say, not that I'm complaining, it's good for Ma to have someone around but wouldn't it make more sense for him to live with you? Oh, forget I asked, I'm just as nosy as Ma is." Mary whose last name probably wasn't Callaghan anymore observed her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in small rings before she looked at him again.

"I know it's not my place to ask."

"My house is smaller than Eleanors," he said.

"I see. And you came back because you lost your job, Ma said?"

"Yes," he nodded briefly.

"And he'll be going back to Uni," he heard a male voice and when he turned his head, he saw Stephen, the one he had foolishly ran from, closing the door to the kitchen carefully, extracting a pack of cigarettes from his own pocket and accepting the light his sister handed him with a smile. He then smiled at Severus – seemed to understand.

Those people – he didn't understand them. All of them, five children with all their children (obviously apart from one) coming back for Christmas – and behaving as if they still lived there. No fighting so far, just general talking. Children squealing.

"Linguistics," the man said.

"Oh, Stephen. Do you have another topic you can ever talk about?" she asked bickeringly – good-naturedly though it sounded.

"No, I find it absolutely fascinating. And you'd to if you'd see how much of your life is influenced by Linguistics."

"Bore someone else with it," she rolled her eyes and then winked at Severus. "I'm sure he'll find out when he goes to Uni to study it. Going to Manchester then?"

He nodded, feeling again, much younger than he really was.

"What's that godson of yours doing? The one ogling my daughter?" the man asked, winking as well. It didn't sound mean, it only sounded – inquisitive. Curious. Nosy, if pressed, yes.

"He," Severus cleared his throat, "he just finished school and I think he's considering his options."

"Aideen just started in autumn. Medicine, if you can believe it. Don't know who she got that from," he grumbled.

"Probably from Ma. Always patching up people. Severus, you must remember...you fell one day, just on the street when you rode that huge bicycle that I think belonged to your father and...who was it that brought him in? Stephen, do you remember?"

He shook his head, "I think I might have been away already. I don't remember that."

"Then it was maybe Thomas or Mark. Don't know but one of us found you outside, having just fallen of the bike and your knee was bleeding like...it was a right mess. I remember you didn't cry. You bit your lip so hard that that bled to, but you didn't cry. And Ma gave you a bit of chocolate and cleaned the wound and put a big plaster on it. Surely you remember?"

Severus shook his head slowly. What did he remember from his childhood? His mother and his father fighting – Lily, naturally. Swings and Lily. Had he been so focused on always only remembering Lily that he had forgotten all the other things about his childhood?

Bicycle. Huge. His father's yes, but never that he could remember ridden by his father. Falling of it? He couldn't remember that. Being patched up by Eleanor? Couldn't remember that. Couldn't remember.

The children squealed.

"...dinner and the speech! People, come on in. Dad, you said you'd quit smoking," he heard fragments from the girl named Aideen and a second later, his godson's face came into focus, bending down towards him.

"Uncle Severus? We can eat," he said softly.

"I'm coming," he said, trying so hard to remember parts of his childhood without his parents in them – without Lily in them.

.

Hermione sat hunched over books. She had gathered all of them that had anything to do in the slightest with genealogy, with Wizarding families, with ancient curses, on wandlore around her.

There was honestly no system. She flipped one book open, found something and scribbled it down.

Not the way she had pictured her Christmas (they hadn't even opened the presents yet) but she was so deep in her task that she couldn't even remember it was Christmas. This was something she could do, something she could find out, something that books would help.

There were, in a dusty, old, dog-eared book, references to the Curse, called, aptly, Execratio Noli Magici. The Curse of no magic. But the dog-eared, old, dusty book only mentioned it, and only said that there were no counter-curses. At least she hoped this was the curse Hestia Jones had used.

But – had she done it because she wanted to do it or because someone had put a curse on her? And if yes, had it been the Dark Side? Had it been the same person that had hexed Lucius Malfoy? And if yes, would the Dark Side want to put a curse on their own? Make it that obvious? Or could it be someone who had fought on their side? And if so, why do it? Why use Hestia Jones? Who – of course, couldn't give an answer anymore.

She drew a line down a bit of parchment and wrote Light and Dark in big letters on top before drawing another line underneath it. She would just – she decided – make a list of people who she expected were capable of doing something so horrible. In all actual fact, she couldn't think of anyone who could be capable of doing this and who hadn't been Kissed. In her mind, the Light Side, her side, wouldn't be so cruel. All of them knew Snape had been loyal to the end, ready to give his life. Everyone, she suspected, knew he was braver than any Gryffindor, smarter than any Ravenclaw and Cunning personified. To take away his magic was not probably not as big a punishment to him as it was for the Wizarding World in general.

She shook her head to herself, then quickly picked up a fresh roll of parchment and took a deep sigh. After she had received a prompt reply from Slughorn about her potions question, she was optimistic that she would get a quick answer for this as well.

She had to know this. Not that it had anything to do with anything she was working on, but somehow, the imagine of Severus Snape, first in the garden, looking like Death with the scythe in his hand, and then underneath the street lamp, was burned in her memory. And somehow, in her mind, he looked better now, he looked like someone she wanted to look up to, she even, for whatever it was worth, realised that she was admiring him. Admiring him for his bravery, for his cunning, for his intelligence. Somehow, her mind formed an image of Snape that another part of her brain knew wasn't true, wasn't even right. But she still had to know. Just to let the Wizarding World in general – and if she ever found out who cast the curse (if it hadn't been Jones's idea) in particular – know what they had done to the Wizarding World.

_Dear Sir or Madam,_

_I am doing research on Severus Snape and I was wondering if you could send me all the back issues of your highly esteemed magazine in which he published. Payment can be made through the delivery owl or by any other means._

_Kind regards,_

_Hermione Granger_

She smiled determinedly to herself as she tied the letter to Harry's owl's leg (she really needed to get her own) and dived into her books again, filling in names on the list. All on the Dark Side, oddly enough.

.

It was loud, it was noisy, it was messy and Draco enjoyed every minute of it. Flanked by his godfather and, _incidentally_, Aideen, he compared all the dinner parties, luncheons, teas at Malfoy Mansion to this. There was no way it was even similar. Aideen's elbow more than once connected with his arm or his ribs (and he, incidentally, scooted even a bit closer to her side) and Severus had his arms plastered to his sides and ate a little oddly. The children, all those under fifteen, he guessed, ate at the couch table, sitting on the floor, having a grand party of their own.

Oh, but this was wonderful. Everyone was talking, some were bickering, most didn't care that there was food in their mouths. It was warm, it was cosy, it was wonderful. Aideen smiled at him once in a while and he felt the overwhelming urge of draw her into a corner, a quieter corner, and look at her and talk to her and be with her. He had never thought he could feel something like this towards a person he barely knew. Wanting to get to know her, wanting to talk, wanting to be on a level with her, not feeling in the slightest superior or inferior to her but just level. And her smile was stunning, it was breath-taking, it made his chest burn.

He did know that his father would absolutely freak out if he knew that his only son was in the process of falling deeply in love with a Muggle. But his father was – under the Imperius or not – a sad bastard. He didn't want anything to do with him and he hoped that he could stay with Eleanor for the time being. At least as long as his fifty Galleons lasted – and as long as he could just think about what he wanted to do with it.

What Aideen studied sounded marvellous. Muggle medicine. Would make his father probably faint. Or cringe. Or puke. Or kill himself. He didn't care. Maybe, he thought, he would try to start Uni, just as Severus was starting. Maybe – he could spend more time with Aideen then. And wouldn't that be perfect?

He smiled at her when she caught his eye, then bent over, when she beckoned for him to bring his ear close to her mouth. The proximity made him shiver, her smell, like a citrussy perfume and the food they were eating his the hair on the back of his head tingle and stand up straight. It made him want to draw a deep breath, commit that scent to memory forever.

"Is your godfather okay?" she asked in his ear, her breath fanning against his neck. Another shiver went up and down his spine and he needed a moment to get his bearings to look at his godfather.

The man was pale again, but that was no news but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They were looking out of the window – and his back was rigid. The entire posture implied – ready for attack. Ready to strike. He knew his godfather. There was something, something outside the window. Something on the street and Draco quickly turned, looking past Aideen, out of the window as well, then saw what his godfather saw, and whipped his head around to him.

"What the fuck is Potter doing here?" he hissed, brows furrowed.

.


	24. Speech Acts

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Speech acts: What we have not yet explored is the fact that we also usually know how speakers intend us to 'take' (or, interpret the function of) what they say. In very general terms, we can usually recognise the type of 'act' performed by a speaker in uttering a sentence. The use of the term speech act covers 'actions' such as 'requesting', 'commanding', 'questioning' and 'informing'. It is typically the case that we use the following linguistic forms with the following 'functions'. _

_Did you eat the food? → Interrogative → Question_

_Eat the food (please). → Imperative → Command _

_You ate the food. → Declarative → Statement_

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

And then the idiotic boy waved. Jumped up and down in front of the window and bloody waved. Had obviously seen them and gestured – so that the whole town could see it – for him (or Draco) to come outside.

"Who's that?" one of the others (male – Thomas? Mark?) asked and Severus knew he had a chance to leave this table, knew he had a chance to put a Potter into place. Knew that it wouldn't look odd if he got up now.

"Isn't he one of your former pupils, Severus?" Eleanor asked suddenly and that was when he got up. He could see immediately, that it wasn't he that Potter wanted outside – but Draco. However, he made a cutting gesture along his throat and Potter stopped jumping up and down and stopped waving and just stood.

"Yes," he replied. "Excuse me." He shook his head barely perceptibly at Draco and left the house, left the table. He knew he didn't look as impressive in his new black slacks and the shirt he had put on. He knew the leather jacket he had thrown over his shoulder was – well – the opposite of his former, black, billowing robes. That leather jacket certainly didn't have the same effect but it was nevertheless Potter who cringe slightly – and then gaped at his sight.

"Shut your mouth, Potter. You look even less intelligent than I remember you being," he snarled before he came to a halt just in front of the boy. "And what in the name of all that's good and holy did you think? Thought it was a good idea to come here, to interrupt a Christmas dinner and wave and jump like a lunatic in the middle of a street?"

"I, er, erm, I mean, er, I wanted to talk to Malfoy. Because of his father."

"And that couldn't wait until tomorrow? Christmas, Potter? Just because you don't have anyone to celebrate with or don't have any respect for holidays doesn't mean that others don't..."

"It's important," Potter interrupted rudely. "He was put under the Imperius and..."

"And again, arrogant little Potter doesn't think," Severus said, his hand grabbing the collar of Potter's Muggle coat and dragged him, with a yelp coming from the boy, to his house. Not that he wanted to Potter brat to come into his own home – but at this moment, he didn't seem to have much choice if he wanted to hear what had happened to Lucius Malfoy (whom he still – even if he was under an Imperius – owed a broken nose). And if he didn't want the entire Callaghan family to know that they were (or had been) Wizards, he would have to remove the Gryffindor from the street as well. Couldn't have him shouting things like Imperius around.

"Eeep," Potter yelped again when his feet weren't quick enough on the stairs and he stumbled into Severus's hall. He didn't care and let go off his collar just quick enough to see him tumbling to the ground. He sneered (it was so easy to do, really, when Potter was around) and stepped over the struggling boy and inside his living room. That was as much as Potter would get to see. Not his not yet renovated kitchen, and definitely not the rooms upstairs. Well, one room.

He had cleaned up the mess on the table that morning and so there was absolutely nothing in his living room that implied he was actually doing something. Not anything.

"Erm, Prof..."

Severus growled and glared at his former student as he sat down on one of his chairs.

"Er, right, I come from the Ministry. I mean, I went home and got changed because it might have been stupid to come here wearing robes but..."

"You obviously came to say something of importance," he drawled. "Say it."

"Do you know that Bellatrix Lestrange's wand was stored – in whole – at the Ministry?" Potter asked and Severus couldn't help the frown that appeared on his face. The Ministry at its most competent, once more. Who would have thought – not snapping wands of dead people. Was just the same – next they'd have an exhibition with those. He tried to press his face back into his former, so familiar mask, and arched only his eyebrows slightly.

"No," he said.

"They did," he nodded eagerly, and apparently forgot who he was talking to. He didn't dare to look at him though, looked around in the living room, stared at the white walls. "And someone took her wand and placed an Imperius Curse on Malfoy. And nobody knew who it was. They don't monitor closely enough..."

"Mister Potter, the failings of the Ministry of _Magic_," he sneered the word, "are no concern of mine..."

"That's why I wanted to talk to Draco. He should see his father. They are lifting the curse soon and he should be there. Kingsley Shacklebolt asks that he's there. I wanted to talk to him, not to you," he lifted his head and looked defiantly at him. In his eyes. Maybe Potter wasn't afraid of him using Legilimency and why should he be? He couldn't – and he wouldn't. But his face wasn't that difficult to read. He was puzzled at being invited (well, invited) in, surprised at how the living room looked like, stunned by the situation he had found him and Draco in. Confused at this entire scenario.

"I will let him know," he said coldly. He should have let Draco go but if he had, they would have probably brawled on the street and nothing would have ever been told. It was better this way, he suspected. Even if he had to endure Potter.

The boy swallowed and played with a bit of yarn that hung from his sleeve. "Do, erm, do you have an idea who could have done it? They think that this person might have also placed an Imperius on Hestia Jones and that she had been forced to put the Curse on you."

He stifled his sigh. What did it matter to him who was, in the end, behind that Curse? It did not matter anymore. He was effectively a Muggle and that had not been a bad thing, at least not only. What mattered more was that Eleanor had almost been killed. And if Lucius wasn't strong enough to resist an Imperius Curse, then he deserved a broken nose. But in the end, all they had to do was to be careful who they opened their doors to – and all the rest...he wasn't a part of this world anymore. It wasn't his job to find out things, to know things. Those days were over. And he was glad for it.

"No," he replied simply. "Is this all you came to say?"

Potter nodded. "Yes. But please tell Draco to contact me."

Severus sneered but didn't reply, only stood up from his chair and Potter, for once, understood the hint. He all but ran out of the house, a quick, mumbled good bye on his lips. It put a smirk on Severus's face. He had the information and Potter still didn't like him any better and would probably never dare to show his face anymore, even if he had been rather nice towards the boy. He hadn't bitten his head off, he hadn't insulted him. Not bad at all.

Eleanor was mellowing him.

.

He stood, elbow to elbow with Aideen and both of them dried the dishes which Aideen's mother, Imogen, washed. He knew he was acting quite unlike himself and quite beneath everything he had been taught to follow her around like this but he couldn't help himself. She was so unlike every other girl he had yet met. Cheeky, outspoken, her eyes twinkling and a smile always ready on her face. There was nothing artificial about her. She was natural, she was herself, joking with her mother, flicking soap suds at him and at her and he couldn't take his eyes off her. Not even after Potter had disturbed his focus on her. No, he had only briefly wondered what he could want, probably just another one of those foolhardy, obvious Gryffindor attempts to 'help' his godfather. Didn't matter.

He didn't honestly see or hear anyone but her and so there was a quite un-Malfoy-like sound coming from his lips when he felt someone grabbing the collar of his Muggle shirt and pulled roughly out of the kitchen, into the backyard.

"What?" he tried to glare at his godfather who looked just as imposing with his arms crossed over his chest in his leather jacket as he had done in his billowing, black robes.

"Your presence is requested at the Ministry of Magic. Don't ask me why, I'm just the messenger," Severus Snape sneered. "And do try not to be so obvious with the poor girl. She has a _boyfriend_ anyway."

Draco's mouth dropped open. She hadn't mentioned a boyfriend. A boyfriend? Aideen, taken? Oh. His face fell and all his happiness dropped from him. Everything that had been good about this now had a stale taste. She was merely playing with him. Like so many others. He tried to feel angry, he tried to feel outraged but he couldn't. He felt – empty.

Nodding slowly, he swallowed around the newly forming lump in his throat. "The Ministry?"

"Yes," his godfather drawled. Well, this man wasn't compassionate and he had always known it. He wasn't a hugging, demonstrative, cuddly godfather. He was someone to turn to for advice – not for consolation.

"Very well," he eyed the stepladder. Might as well. He nodded once more at his godfather, then climbed the stepladder, not hearing, or rather not listening to Severus's protests and as soon as he was crouched on the other side of the wall, invisible to anyone, he disapparated, focusing all his thoughts on the apparition and none at the disappointment inside.

.

"Hermione?" Harry shouted. He had a habit of shouting. Not that she was many places in that house. Either her room, the bathroom, the library or the kitchen. And he still insisted on shouting. Hermione rolled her eyes.

"In the library," she shouted back, quickly pushing her list of people underneath a stack of parchments on which she had scribbled notes about Arithmancy.

He panted when he stood next to her. "Snape's wearing a leather jacket now. And his living room is Mugglish," he said, pensively.

"What?"

"Well...stupidly enough, I went there because I thought I could catch Draco. But apparently him and Snape were both invited to the neighbour person for Christmas and I saw them through the window and waved and tried to get their attention and then instead of Malfoy, Snape came out and dragged me to his house. And it's normal. It has white walls. And he wore a leather jacket."

Somehow, she wanted to...she had to..."What did you expect he'd live in? Black walls? That's depressing."

Harry chuckled good naturedly. "No, I just never expected him to live anywhere. I never really thought about it."

"Leather jacket?" Hermione asked, her brain processing fully what he had said.

"You're not going to start to swoon now just because someone is wearing a leather jacket, will you? It's still Snape in it."

"Why should I start swooning?" she asked, feeling caught.

"Ginny told me to get one once," he rolled his eyes. "Said she had seen it in one of her father's Muggle magazines. I don't think it was Playboy," he laughed. "More like an old TV guide thingy. And she said it would make me look dangerous and wild and just...you don't want to know."

"No, you're right, I don't," she laughed. But somehow, she tried to picture in her brain the image of Severus Snape in a leather jacket. And that image was – not unpleasant. Of course she knew that in her brain, she had changed the image of him. In those last two hours when she had tried to focus on Arithmancy and her list, the mental image of Snape in her brain had gone from Snarky Snape to well...Gentle Snape. It was only in her brain, she knew. But somehow, that leather jacket now fit perfectly. A bit dangerous, a bit mean but gentle when he the time was right, kind words when one needed them. Utter rubbish, her reasonable side said, but the rest of her disagreed.

"Did you talk to Malfoy?"

"I tried talking to Lucius Malfoy but he was silent and Draco didn't come out of the house. It was only Snape who did. And after I told him what I came to tell him, he sort of dismissed me."

"That would be him," she chuckled. Oh, how did she know? Well, she didn't. And she should just...stop building a wrong Snape-persona in her head. That was unhealthy. And bad. And wrong. On so many levels. But he was a hero. He was brave. He was smart. He stood up for the things he believed in. He was loyal. And she was very sure that he could be kind when he wanted to. That he would be once he had reason to be.

"Hermione?" Harry asked, frowning at her.

"Sorry?"

"Do you want to go out? Or do you think we can order in? We still haven't...I mean..:Christmas."

She nodded, smiling. "Let's order and open the presents."

.

"Severus?" Eleanor had found him – sitting in the garden. "Everything alright?"

He looked at her, then shrugged. "I..."

"Where did Draco go?" Aideen rushed outside. That girl certainly had the wrong timing.

"Yes, where did he go?" Eleanor asked. She hadn't seen him leave, she hadn't seen him go anywhere.

"He left," Severus said.

"Why?" Aideen asked as Eleanor looked at the man. He looked – guilty. And disturbed. And then there was a glint in his eyes. A glint she hadn't seen before. Not ever. A second later, almost too late for her to notice, he jumped up from the chair that stood in her little backyard and glared at Aideen.

"Because this is not where he should be!" he almost yelled. "This is not where he belongs and it's not right for him to run after her," he pointed at Aideen, "when she is otherwise attached."

"Otherwise attached? Gran, I don't go out with Bradley anymore. I'm not attached," her granddaughter shrieked. "Did you tell him I did?"

"I didn't, love," she answered, shaking her head.

"Did you?" she glared at Severus.

"What does it matter? He doesn't belong here," he shouted and with three or four steps, he was over the stepladder and she could hear his backdoor slamming shut.

"Aideen-love, go inside, Draco will be back and you'll tell him that you don't go out with anyone," she smiled and patted her granddaughter's cheek. "It's just a misunderstanding."

She grumbled, but the girl went back inside and Eleanor, with the Christmas present for Severus in the pocket of her apron, climbed over the stepladder as well. She should not have to do that at her age but that boy was alone and her family would be fine without her for a moment. That boy wasn't.

Eagerly, she pushed the door open and stepped through the house. He wasn't in the living room and he wasn't in the kitchen and with a sigh, Eleanor climbed the stairs.

"Cooked all day and night and have to look for Easter eggs on Christmas," she muttered. "Severus?" she cried just before she walked into his newly made bedroom. And there he sat, with his face in his hands on the bed, the leather jacket still around his shoulders. "What's the matter, love?" she asked gently, sitting down next to him (with her knees cracking) and putting an arm around his shoulders.

He said absolutely nothing. He just sat very still and she, eyebrows arched, pulled the wrapped present from the pocket of her apron. "Here," she said kindly and pried the hands from his face before she put the small present into them.

"Open it," she said and nudged him.

"I don't..."

"Severus, if you don't want to talk now, it's fine, but it's Christmas and you given me so much," she smiled at him and pushed her elbows against his ribs. He was too thin. Eleanor made a mental note to herself to cook more fattening food in the future.

He looked at her, startled and she felt so sorry for him at that moment. He had obviously heard, from that former student of his, some bad news, had heard something which had greatly disturbed him and had sent, probably, Draco to investigate since he had still access to their world and Severus hadn't. Poor boy. She smiled at him a little broader now, tried to look more encouragingly.

He looked back into her eyes, all the pain, all the hurt, and all the confusion basically oozing out of them and with trembling fingers, he unwrapped the present.

"I don't have a lot of money, so..."

He stared at the watch. It had been her husband's. It was old, but it was in beautiful condition and she knew he had none. She had taken it to have it checked and she had let the engraving be re-made. He stared at it, then stared at her, with his mouth a little open and his eyes wide. She smiled back and then pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek. It was only a moment later that he turned it around and saw the engraving on the back. _Love, Eleanor_, it said. And when he saw that, he looked at her again and a moment later, she had her arms wrapped around him and he had his head on her shoulder and she rocked him slowly and whispered a lot of nonsense in his ear and told him that she loved him. Loved him, no matter what.

.


	25. Neurolinguistics

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

.

_Neurolinguistics: In September 1848, near Cavendish, Vermont, a construction foreman called Phineas P. Gage was in charge of a construction crew, blasting away rocks to lay a new stretch of railway line. As Phineas pushed an iron tamping rod into the blasting hole in a rock, some gunpowder accidentally exploded and sent the three-and-a-half-foot long tamping rod up through Phineas' upper left cheek and out from the top of his forehead. The rod landed about fifty yards away. Phineas suffered the type of injury from which, it was assumed, no one could recover. However, a month later, Phineas was up and about, with no apparent damage to his senses or his speech. _

_The medical evidence was clear. A huge metal rod had gone through the front part of Mr Gage's brain, but Mr Gage's language abilities were unaffected. The point of this amazing tale is that, if language ability is located in the brain, it clearly is not situated right at the front. _

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

As soon as Draco Malfoy stepped into the Ministry of Magic, and had his wand checked, he was surrounded by two Aurors. He wasn't sure of their names and he couldn't remember ever seeing them.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked, as snottily as he could, trying to forget about the girl, about Aideen, and some idiot who pawed her and touched her and was allowed to kiss her and look at her all he liked.

"Just a precaution," one of the Aurors grumbled.

"Precaution to what?" he asked, but both Aurors remained silent and just pointed at the lift. Draco rolled his eyes and was glad that he had been allowed to keep his wand. It gave him, after all, a sense of security and he grasped it tightly within his pocket. No matter what the Aurors said – he did not trust them. He only trusted himself to protect himself. And if there was someone who had indeed harmed his father and godfather, then here was the big chance that someone wanted to harm him as well. And he doubted those idiotic Aurors would help him. More likely, they would hold him fast to make sure whoever it was hit him squarely in the chest.

"This door to the right," one of the Aurors said and all he saw was an empty corridor, and a row of doors. He didn't let go off his wand, looked over his shoulder. Didn't trust those Aurors that kept a step behind him. He was almost positive that he could feel if a curse or a hex hit him but only almost. He wasn't completely sure. Severus would know. But he would have to be very careful what he asked the man and at this moment, it was too late anyway. He would just have to be careful. And keep looking over his shoulder. The way he had been taught by his godfather.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy," he heard the deep voice of the Minister. "I'm glad you could come that promptly."

"I was told to come as soon as possible," he said coldly. "I am unsure however, what was so urgent that I was dragged away from my Christmas celebrations."

The Minister, suddenly, chuckled. "It's good to hear you're well."

Draco glared. What did that man know? His father said in the next room and though he could see him, he avoided looking at him. He had just heard that the girl he fancied like crazy had a boyfriend and he had no Christmas present for his godfather that came even close to being on the same level as the one he had bought for him. He had left Eleanor Callaghan without saying good bye. Oh but he would go back, no doubt about that. Would have to apologise. He had some manners after all. For some people.

"What do you want from me?" he asked, glaring.

"This is your father, isn't it?" the Minister asked and Draco shot the man a quick glance. He certainly looked like his father but the posture was nothing like him. He had never known his father to slouch or to sit anything but ramrod straight. His hair had never been anything but squeaky clean and his robes never been anything but impeccable. The man who sat in there had dirty hair, messy robes and he sat hunched over.

"He looks like my father," he said coldly.

"We have not yet broken the Imperius. And we'd ask you to stay. We tried to contact your mother but she didn't answer our owl and so we need you to witness."

"Why?" he asked, suspiciously.

"There is this new thing that we have to secure ourselves against, new from the Muggle world. Indemnity. It means that we have to make sure someone is there while we do something to someone else, like a witness that we're not using any kind of torture methods and doing everything according to protocol," he explained. "The curse-breakers will be in at any moment. Would you sign this? Take your time to read it through, it only states that you're here to witness the event. You will have to sign another thing later when we can confirm that no harm has been done to your father."

Draco read through the paper carefully. There wasn't much on it and as far as he could see, and as far as his wand informed him after performing a Revelio spell on the parchment, it was truly only to confirm that he was at the Ministry. He eyed the Minister suspiciously and signed.

"Good." The Minister smiled benignly. No, truly, that man had never done him anything. He had spoken up for him, in fact. Not for his father, but for him. There was no reason for him not to trust him. And that parchment showed absolutely nothing suspicious. "Would you like a cup of tea while you wait? Or a drink of water? Juice? Anything? It could be a while until they show up. Temperamental curse-breakers. You know what they're like," the Minister chuckled.

"Sure," Draco said. "No tea though. Er, water, please."

He watched – having had a good education – as Shacklebolt conjured a jug of water and poured him a glass and then, himself a glass. He watched as the Minister drank, and only then drank himself.

The Minister then sat down and crossed his legs as one other Auror, another one he hadn't seen before, stepped inside.

"Mister Malfoy, is it?" the Auror asked.

"Yes," he answered immediately.

"Draco?"

"Yes. Draco Abraxas," he answered and his head – suddenly – felt rather woozy. He had watched how the Minister had poured the water. He had watched how he had drunk. He had...this was Veritaserum. He had been dosed with the drug. And Shacklebolt...he just sat there. And grinned.

"You fucking bastards," he choked out before he felt himself falling deeper into a haze.

"Did you put any kind of curse on your father?"

"Yes," he answered slowly.

"What kind of curse?"

"Boils," Draco replied automatically.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve," he answered.

"And after that?"

"No."

"No curses? No jinxes? No hexes?"

"Jelly-legs, once," he choked.

"How old were you?"

"16," he answered, the haze getting deeper and foggier.

"Have you ever used an Unforgivable?"

"Yes."

"On whom?"

"I don't know."

"Which?"

"Cruciatus Curse," he said and his eyes felt heavy and fell shut.

"On a Muggle?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I had to," Draco didn't feel like himself anymore.

"Who told you to do it?" he could see the Auror still asking him through hooded eyes. The Minister said nothing. Just sat there.

"He-who-must-not-be-named," he answered.

"Not once after?"

"No."

"Only once?"

"Yes."

The haze slowly, lifted. "Do you know who put an Imperius Curse on your father, Lucius Malfoy?"

"No, I don't."

"Do you know whether Hestia Jones was put under the Imperius Curse before she cursed Severus Snape?"

"No, I don't," he answered, the haze lifting. He could see the Auror clearer now. Indistinct brown hair, brown eyes, average height. Nothing special.

"It's weakening," the Minister said suddenly. "But I think we have all the information we need. He knows nothing."

"Very well," the Auror said and it was over as quickly as it had begun. He understood. The Minister had dosed himself – and him. They had thought he had done it. That he had something to do with it. Well, that was just wonderful. Severus had made the right choice. He embraced the Muggle world. He did the best he could. The peaceful, happy Muggle world. Christmas amongst family. A warm, loving family. Laughter and working together and drying dishes with Aideen. And then comparing it to the former Christmases at his former home. Cold, stiff, formal. No laughter but silence. No laughter.

He felt himself again. Completely. There was no urge to say the truth. There was no urge to listen to them speak. He wanted to – throw his wand at them, snap it in front of them and tell them where to stick the pieces. But he was in London. He had no money. He had no way of getting back at Eleanor Callaghan and had no way of getting back to Aideen. No way of getting back there and tell that stupid boyfriend of hers to sod off. He would. He would.

"Gentlemen," he said in a tone of voice that would make his godfather proud, "Thank you for your hospitality. I'm sure you will find someone else to watch my father. If need be."

He held his head high the way he had learned and strode out of the room. So he had been tricked. He had done everything the way he had been taught and who would have expected the Minister to dose himself? Nobody would have thought so. Bloody, idiotic Ministry. Bloody, idiotic Minster. That thing with the document was probably just a ploy. It was all a ploy. He had to talk to his godfather about this. His godfather was the only who could relate to this. But first, he had to go home. And home was with Eleanor Callaghan now.

.

Eleanor had coaxed him out of his own house and back into hers. It had not been easy, especially when he had looked at her as if she had just told him she was working for MI-6 as she had told him that she loved him. Eileen had never been demonstrative but it almost looked as if he had heard it for the first time.

It was alright though and with the new old watch around his wrist, she had explained that they had to watch the Queen's Christmas speech before pudding and then there would be more presents. He had doubted it, but Eleanor knew for a fact that every single one of her children and bought him at least a book. And that Draco had bought (with a little help from her) a comfortable chair at Ikea for him to put in front of his fireplace. It still had to be put together but that would be no trouble with Draco and his new tool box.

Severus looked – lost – amidst her family. A lone figure, sitting stiffly on the couch in front of the telly, watching the Queen speak. She would have to make him speak again. Had no idea what that tantrum had been about and why he had disappeared, what had made him look like a little boy on his bed. She would make him talk, soon. As soon as her family was gone again and as soon as Aideen had that thing fixed with Draco. She would make sure that girl was locked in her room while she stayed there. Had no doubt there was something bubbling between them. But indecency in her house? No.

He had returned, yes, looking slightly dishevelled only a few moment before the Queen's Christmas speech had ended and her granddaughter hadn't waited a single moment before she had grabbed his hand and had pulled him outside again. She would, she decided, give them five more minutes. Or maybe three. Not another grandchild of her would have a child out of wedlock. One was quite enough. And it would most certainly not happen in her house. She was happy that those two had something going – but they would wait. Or would at least hide it from her. On that, Eleanor was very adamant.

She caught her eldest daughter's eye and nodded slightly towards Severus. She was glad that Kathleen understood and asked Severus immediately whether he would help her with the tea and as those two left the living room, she went with them, but immediately left the kitchen through the backdoor, out into the garden.

Eleanor groaned. She would certainly lock that guestroom's door.

.

"I have no boyfriend," Aideen said quickly, looking into the beautiful eyes of Draco Malfoy. "I don't know what your godfather said but he has another thing coming."

"Why do you look like this? Where did you go? You were suddenly gone. What happened? Where did you go?"

Draco closed his eyes – and only shrugged – then looked at her again and his eyes were so expressive. So wonderfully open to her. She could read them well. Betrayal, hurt, confusion.

"What happened, Draco?" she asked, softer this time. "Did you go somewhere?"

"A, erm, part of my family...I had to talk to...someone, well, an acquaintance of my family, really."

"Oh," she whispered softly. "Bad news?"

"No," he replied quickly. "I don't know. I'm through with them."

Her eyes widened. "You can't say that. They're your family."

"Not anymore."

"Yes, Draco. You don't just break with family. You can take a break, but you don't break completely. I could...I mean, if you want to," she blushed bright red and stepped closer to him, "but only if you want to...I could go with you and support you."

He smiled crookedly but shook his head. "We'll see."

Aideen smiled back at him and slowly, daringly, took his hand in hers and squeezed. She did want to hug him – just because he looked a little lost, just because he looked like he needed one and she probably would have hugged him. If, yes, if her grandmother hadn't just stuck her head through the door and looked at them disapprovingly.

Instead, she squeezed his hand and smiled at him. "I'll support you anyway," she whispered softly and winked.

.


	26. Acquisition Barriers

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**.**_

_._

_Acquisition barriers: Some obvious reasons for the problems experienced in L2 [second language] acquisition are related to the fact that most people attempt to learn another language duing their teenage or adult years, in a few hours each week of school time (rather than via the constant interaction experienced by a child), with a ot of other occupations (the child has little else to do), and with an already known language available for most of their daily communicative requirements. Some less likely reasons include the suggestion that adults' tongues 'get stiff' from pronouncing one type of language (e.g. English) and just annot cope with the new sounds of another language (e.g. French or Japanese). It's a cute idea, but there is no physical evidence to support it. _

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

Her stack of notes had grown exponentially since Christmas. She had worked all through those days – all through Christmas, all through New Year's, the week after, that week now. Whenever she didn't go through her last six years of education at Hogwarts, Hermione worked on her list of suspects, worked on going through Severus Snape's publications.

That man was – simply put – brilliant.

The reasonable part of her brain had scolded her – and was still scolding her – since Boxing Day for developing a crush she knew was idiotic and unrealistic. And the reasonable part of her brain was a big one. However, some of his publications – she could hear him say those words in that voice of his, she could picture him standing there with his arms crossed over his chest in a leather jacket and blue jeans and explain to her in that voice and with patience (which was idiotic because he wasn't a patient man and the reasonable part of her brain knew that) what all of his texts were about.

More than two weeks since Christmas. More than two weeks in which the unreasonable part of her brain (a minute one) pictured him. Imagine him. Daydreamed.

It was idiotic and she knew it but on the other hand, she knew there was no harm. She knew nothing would ever come of it. She knew that her daydreams, the little scenarios she put in her head when she couldn't sleep and snuggled with her pillow, didn't hurt her and didn't hurt him. It was nothing but a little fantasy that she had put into her head and she knew that that was all. Nothing more, nothing less.

And still – it was lovely to pretend that he would be there, helping her with the revising for her Potions NEWT. To think that someone other than Harry could possibly want to hug her. Not that the real Snape would want that (or many other people) but the Severus in her head would. The Severus in her head would want to hold her through the night when the nightmares hit and he would wipe away silently shed tears, the Severus in her head would kiss it all better and would tell her that he loved her and that...

"Bollocks," she told herself on that dreary January morning. The Severus in her head did not exist. He was a phantasm. She knew it. She knew it was probably even slightly unhealthy to make out a Severus in her head. But she felt, somewhere in her stomach, that she needed the phantasm-Severus in her head to go to sleep every night.

Hermione Granger pushed her Potions notes as far away as they would go and pulled the Charms book closer to herself. Maybe she would go to Uni somewhere and major in Charms. Or maybe do something else entirely.

Hairdresser. She could always try and become a hairdresser. Maybe it would help her with her own mane. She'd look into that. Definitely. Maybe not.

On that cold, dreary January morning, sleet coming from the grey London sky, Hermione pushed her head in her hands and for the millionth time, she thought about her future. About what she wanted to do.

.

Draco Malfoy was two things: frustrated and happy. Both at the same time. Frustrated because he felt like he had been watched like a hawk since Christmas. Watched by Eleanor, was terrible. He had never more than a minute or two alone with Aideen, no matter how much they tried. And during the nights, he could get out of his room, but Aideen's was locked. No chance at seeing her alone, no chance of talking to her or even holding her hand. Nothing. Hence, he was happy that she had gone back to Uni. He only had to take the 216 bus. Then walk a bit. He had to ask his godfather for the way since he had almost the same way now. Well, had, from this morning on. Apparently, he only went three times a week and it couldn't be too difficult to catch a bus, or, once he knew where he had to go exactly, he could even apparate. And once he was there with her, he could talk to her, get to know her without her grandmother present.

As much as he liked Mrs Callaghan – and he did – those almost three weeks since Christmas had done nothing to endear her to him. Well, she had not treated him like a mongrel chasing her pedigree but she had just kept a very close eye on them, had made sure that one of them always had something to do. And that was – unnerving.

He had tried to see it from her point of view, had tried to see that she was afraid for the virtue of Aideen but who did she think he was? Someone who shagged everything in sight? Oh well – he would just have to prove to her that he was worthy of Aideen. When the time was right.

And for now, he was truly looking forward to his godfather showing him the University. And maybe beginning to work. He needed money and needed to forge his documents before he could start Uni himself.

.

Severus eyed himself critically in the mirror. Eleanor had told him to wear a tie (which had belonged to her late husband) and a jacket (which had belonged to Stephen). Aideen had said to wear jeans and a shirt or a jumper and the leather jacket. Aideen was the one attending Uni and Eleanor wasn't – and so, he had pulled out the jeans and a black jumper from his cupboard and had dressed in that. So far, he had been quite successful had shoving all thoughts about that University away. He did not want to imagine what he looked like stumbling into a classroom. As a student.

So far, he had been busy helping Eleanor keeping Draco and Aideen apart. Not that he thought it would immediately result in babies (or one baby) if they were left alone together for ten minutes (and he trusted Draco to know non-verbal contraceptive spells) but he respected Eleanor and her wish not to put her granddaughter's virtue at risk in her house. He played along – and he knew Draco was happy being with her, sensing a sort of normalcy in a family, looking out for one another when he had not talked to his father or mother once since that curse on Eleanor. There had been owls. He had seen them. And he had seen Draco ignore them. Once, he had seen Draco trying to hex an owl.

He had said – nothing. He hadn't commented on the Ministry's drugging his godson. He had thought his part. Nothing more, nothing less. Not that he hadn't been tempted to get any Muggle means of destruction and do whatever to the Ministry. Bomb it, probably. Muggles had their means and they didn't need a wand for it.

He wouldn't need one either.

But at least, he thought as he left the house and locked it up, Lucius had not shown his face again. Not that anyone knew who had put the Imperius on him, at least he didn't know. And he didn't truly care. He had a few suspicions – thinking about it when he hadn't been able to sleep – but he would do nothing. He wouldn't tell the Ministry anything. And why should he? The Ministry had never done anything for him. Tit for tat. You could – he had thought a while back – take the man out of Slytherin, but you couldn't take the Slytherin out of the man.

He walked slowly towards the bus stop, the leather bag Draco had put the money in under his arm. He knew what he had to do. Aideen and Eleanor had shown him the way. He had looked at the building two day after New Year's.

No, he was no coward – but this situation, it was so new, it was so strange. So many years of being a teacher – and then, suddenly, having to sit at the other side again? But then again, he was almost desperate to know more about Linguistics. To figure out what exactly all the books said that Stephen had said he would send – and had sent. Surprisingly. Had his bookshelf now half-filled. Books he had received from Eleanor's family for Christmas. Presents he had unwrapped with wonder greater than he had ever felt before at any Christmas. Novels. Classics. Everything. That family had given him presents.

No time to think about that now. Now it was time to get on that bus. Now it was time to prepare himself mentally for the hours to come.

Semantics with Professor Deveney. Whoever he was. She was. He'd see.

.


	27. The Meaning of Meaning

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Semantics is generally defined as the study of meaning; and this is the definition that we will provisionally adopt: what is to be understood by 'meaning' in this conext is one of our principal concerns in later chapters. Ever since Ogden and Richard (1923) published their classic treatise on this topic, and indeed since long before that, it has been customary for semanticists to emphasize the fact (and let us grant that it is a fact) that the noun 'meaning' and the verb 'to mean' themselves have many distinguishable meanings. Some idea of the range of ther meanings may be obtained from a consideration of the following sentences: _

_(1) What is the meaning of 'sesquipedalian'?_

_(2) I did not mean to hurt you._

_(3) He never says what he means._

_(4) She rarely means what she says._

_(5) Life without faith has no meaning_

_(6) What do you mean by the word 'concept'?_

_(7) Dark clouds mean rain._

_(8) It was John I meant not Harry._

_It has just been said that the various meanings of the noun 'meaning' and the verb 'to mean' illustrated above are distinguishable, not that they are unrelated. Just how they are related to one another is, however, a difficult and controversial question. _

(Lyons, 1977)

.

The chairs were uncomfortable. Other people had scribbled on the desks. Chatter surrounded him. How he wished to have his Occlumency at that moment, pushing back the terrible feeling at the pit of his stomach that came with something unknown. He wasn't afraid – he was Severus Snape after all – but he disliked that chatter, those scribbled on desks, those uncomfortable chairs.

He had been so early that the room he was supposed to go in, had been almost completely empty and he had sat down in the middle of the room, not at the front, not at the back. Inconspicuously in the middle; the students at the front were called up, and the students in the back were called upon. Those in the middle had a rather simple, rather quiet life. At least this had been the case in most of his classes. First, there had been no one next to him, then with a smile, and a 'this seat taken?', a girl had sat down. So young. Black hair, thick, black lines around her eyes, her skin almost glowingly white, a long, black frock. She wouldn't have looked out of place in the Wizarding World, he had thought, and for a moment, he had waited for her to pull her wand out and fix that one strand of hair at the back of her head that had curled itself slightly and charm it as straight as the rest. But nothing had happened.

Then, about a minute before that class was supposed to begin, a boy had sat down next to him, grinning at him. About the same age as his godson. Just as Severus had (but not the black-clad girl next to him), the young man had pulled out pens and a pad and had carefully marked the date and the course they were taking on top of the page before he leaned back and observed, just as Severus had, the rest of the class.

There were about – thirty people, he suspected. All around his godson's age, except one at the very front. A woman, older even than he was, and next to her, another man, older even than her. The woman, he judged from the one time she had looked around and the back of her head was around fifty, the man, whom he could see slightly in profile, maybe sixty-five. So, clearly, he wasn't the only adult in that room, making a fool of himself. Going to University at his age. He should have tried to find a job, a steady income, a way of paying for the newly acquired phone, the phone bill, the food, taking Eleanor to the sea for a day. Not sitting here, pretending to be a student once more.

But now, he was here. In a classroom. No dark dungeons but high up in a brick building, with scribbled on desks (that would have made a wonderful detention in his time) and uncomfortable chairs. With the pad Eleanor had bought for him and two pens she had given him. One in blue, one in black. 'You never know what you need,' she had said and Aideen had grinned.

That girl – he couldn't figure her out. He had heard her and Eleanor talk. About the pregnant cousin of hers, about Draco, about what was right and what wasn't – and Aideen had promised her grandmother to lock her door during the night. And judging by Draco's grumbling visage, she had. And yes, she was anything but a good girl. She played good-natured pranks on her grandmother and had been very close to slapping him. She had treated him with silence for three days after she had found out that it had been him who had told Draco that she had a boyfriend. And only afterwards, she had hesitantly, made contact. And she had turned out quite witty, acerbic at times. Sharp. And yet there were times when she had acted like a spoilt little girl if she didn't get what she wanted.

"Good morning," he found himself, suddenly, pulled back into the classroom by a woman. So Deveney was a woman. Shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, nose a tad too long. Maybe 35. Younger than him. Not by much. What utter rubbish, being taught by someone younger than himself. And a woman. He wouldn't return. Would explain that this was all a mistake and would then go and look for a job.

"Good morning," she said again and put a heavy looking stack of text books on her desk. "What does it mean?"

Everyone sat very still. Everyone but someone behind him, shuffling papers. Never a good plan. Inconspicuous. That's what you had to be. Look at the person who asks the question – but not directly in the eyes. Inconspicuously.

"You, in the back. Yeah, you, shuffling with your papers, pretending to be very busy. You are not busy at the moment with anything but this question. Good morning. What does it mean?"

"Erm," someone in the back, a girl, said and he could imagine her blush.

"No, that's incorrect. Good morning does not mean erm. Did anyone do any reading before this class? I know this is a beginner's class but is it too much to ask that you at least look up what you're studying now? Good morning," she said forcefully. "What does it mean?"

Severus knew. His hand itched to be raised. His entire arm shook. But he had an image of a select few know-it-alls in his head. Not just Hermione Granger but she was quite prominent on that list of people who always had their hands up first. He wouldn't raise his hand. He wouldn't answer this question. Even though he knew the answer.

The boy next to him coughed and he did raise his hand.

"Finally, we have a volunteer," she said in front. "Yeah, what does it mean?"

"It's a greeting," the boy said, his accent thick. Scouse. Severus could hear it.

"Excellent. A greeting. What does that mean?"

"It means a thing you say to someone you see in the morning," he continued.

"Yes. What else?" she pierced him with her eyes and for a moment, they fell on him as well. Oh, he wanted to smack the boy's head for drawing attention to him. He did not want to be seen. Not yet.

"And," the boy next to him continued, "good morning can also mean that good is an adjective describing the noun more closely. A good morning. Opposite of a bad morning."

"Yes. Well done for such an obvious question," she smiled at him briefly before she turned her back to the class and wrote her name on the whiteboard. "Now that we got that out of the way," she said neutrally, "we can deal with all the boring organisational stuff. My name is Annie Deveney but I go by Dr Deveney. Yes, I like the alliteration so deal with it. I have a reader ready for you and the itinerary for this course is in that too. Topics for papers are to be talked over with me and I want about ten to twelve pages by the second week of the holidays. Yes, I like spoiling my own holidays with grading your work. I don't grant extensions, so don't even ask. There will be essays throughout the term but they will be shorter and done on a weekly basis. If anyone wants to up their grade by doing a presentation, please feel free to contact me via email or talk to me in my office hours. Those are Thursdays from two to four or talk to me after this class. I will not accept more than one presentation per class so if you already know that writing papers is not your forte, decide quickly and on the topics. If none of those say anything to you, you should have done a bit of reading beforehand. You will do all of the reading before class. Active participation is a requirement in this course and if you don't actively participate, your grade won't be good. If you want to leave this course, which of course you can, please tell me. I will not rip your heads off. At least I have never done it before. Questions?"

Severus took a deep breath. He could do this. He could. He opened his reader and smelled the new paper, saw the thick theory texts in there and knew that this would be a lot of fun. And he'd find a way around the active participation part.

.

He had thought long and hard. He honestly had. This wasn't just an impulsive thing. This was something he had to do and since he trusted no one, since his trust came in various degrees for various people (and none reached a hundred percent), he had to chose those that came closest to those hundred percent. And, as much as he hated it, he trusted them at least...twenty percent. Odd, considering their history but there he was. And they had fought for his godfather, had made sure he had a steady income now, even if it did come from the Ministry (and no, he had not seen it yet, and Draco did not want to be in the same room when he did).

And so, because he did want to know how had cursed his father, and because the number of people who would know if there were news was minimal (two, to be precise), Draco Malfoy apparated to Grimmauld Place. Someone would be in. Potter would probably laze around and Granger would have her nose stuck in books. He landed on the doorstep and without hesitating (he didn't even trust himself at that moment not to back out again), he banged the knocker on the door.

"Coming!" he heard Granger shout from inside. "Just one sec," she hollered.

Draco rolled his eyes. No manners. Absolutely no manners at all. Shouting like that.

The door was opened carefully and Granger looked at him first before she flung it open. "Oh, it's you," she nodded, her face neutral. "Come in."

"Not asking me any questions," he sneered, "making sure I'm no Death Eater?"

She arched her eyebrows as she shut the door. "Would be pointless, wouldn't it?" she challenged him.

"Yes, I suppose so," he grinned maliciously, then looked at her. She was wearing shorts. In the dead of winter. And one of those things that Aideen had called tank top. Her bosom almost falling out of it though there wasn't much there. A handful, his eyes guessed. A towel around her head.

"Sorry, was just in the shower," she blushed. "Come through in the kitchen. Kreacher!" she shouted again. Why did she have to shout? It was unseemly for a woman to shout. Aideen shouted but that was endearing. Because she grew a little red when she did and that was cute. Granger was anything but cute. Her legs were okay and that handful was okay, but apart from that – she definitely wasn't cute.

"You called, ma'am?" the house elf asked.

"Yes," she nodded, then turned back to him, "Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes, I did. It's ten. Of course I had breakfast," his eyebrows shot up – what kind of a household was that anyway? Breakfast at ten? Eleanor had woken him at seven thirty. And she had made him breakfast. Lazing around, as he had suspected – only it was Granger doing the lazing.

"I was up late last night revising. You're redoing your NEWTs? Kreacher, breakfast for me please and Draco..."

"Tea," he said and followed her, "And no, I'm not redoing my NEWTs."

"Shame. Not a lot of people do. Don't know why. Nothing more important than a good education." She gestured at a chair. "Sit. Kreacher will be ready in a moment."

"You use an house elf?" he asked spitefully.

"Erm, yes. Kreacher likes it. Kreacher explained," she blushed. "I could make it myself but I'm a hazard in the kitchen really."

Draco almost sneered. But only almost. He wanted to get information from her after all. And maybe he didn't even need Potter – those two shared anything anyway, the way he suspected. And she was a Gryffindor. He would come straight to the point, otherwise, despite her indisputable intelligence, she wouldn't understand what he meant.

"Who put the curse on my father?" he asked as soon as he had taken a sip of the tea that had suddenly appeared in front of him. That house elf was good. Good tea. Excellent tea.

"Erm," she frowned. "I don't know."

"So they're suspecting my mother now? Or still my dead aunt? One of my dead relatives?" he growled.

"Malfoy, er, Draco, I don't understand...why should they suspect your mother?"

"Why did they suspect me?" he almost exploded.

"They didn't..." she shook her head and pushed the plate full of cooked breakfast away from her.

"They didn't?" he sneered, "What was that Veritaserum about then?"

"Veri...what?" her mouth stood open and that, combined with the towel around her head looked ridiculous (Aideen would look cute like that though).

"Oh, so the precious Minister didn't tell you that they drugged me on Christmas? When Potter told me to come?"

"Harry? What did Harry have to do with...HARRY!" she shouted. "COME DOWN HERE! I'm glad he's got the late shift today," she shouted, then mumbled to herself. No manners. Women did not shout like that.

"Whassup?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. Wearing pyjama bottoms and nothing on top. Oh lovely, Draco thought. His hair stuck up to all places. It was after ten. Did nobody get up earlier than ten.

"Oh Malfoy," he ran his fingers through his tussled hair. "Coffee?"

A cup appeared on the table and he gulped it down – and a moment later, Granger, with a face like thunder, summoned a t-shirt and threw it at him.

"Nobody needs to see you naked," she complained and thankfully, Potter put it on immediately. So – interesting. If those two had something going, which had been a possibility, she wouldn't have done that. Maybe Potter was gay after dumping the Weasley that way and looking like that. Walking around half-naked. Not that it mattered. And not that that was the point.

"Did you send Draco to be dosed with Veritaserum?" she accused.

"What?" he frowned.

"I always knew you Gryffindors weren't quick on the uptake," Draco sneered and Granger rolled her eyes.

"Harry, did you send Draco to the Ministry on Christmas?"

He nodded. "I told you. I told Snape to tell him that he should go there as soon as possible. Kingsley said something about needing to have a witness when removing the curse," he answered and gulped down more coffee.

"And then they drugged him," Granger shrieked. No manners.

"No, they didn't."

"Want to see my memory?" Draco sneered. "But of course the sainted Minister wouldn't do that. Yes, they suspected it was me and gave me Veritaserum. Well, the Minister drugged himself as well, but that is not why I'm here. I want to know who cursed my father and my godfather," he drawled, trying to sound bored.

"Well, Jones did the latter, but maybe on Imperius as well," Potter said, yawning.

What news," he drawled again.

"Draco, we don't know. But if they're illegally using Veritaserum..."

"Illegally?" Potter shrieked – and that sound almost confirmed to Draco that he was indeed queer. No straight man could be caught making such a noise.

"What do you think?" he drawled. "That they asked a Death Eater's permission to drug him?"

"They only drugged you then? Tricked you into drinking it?" Granger asked, frowning still.

He quickly told what had happened, including the fact that the Minister had drugged himself and had then let an Auror do the questioning. On Granger's insistence, he described the Auror and Potter's face fell and fell and fell. By the end of his speech, Draco had the feeling that he could pick it up from the ground. It amused him – and would amuse him more if the situation hadn't been so serious.

"I have to go and talk to him," Potter said suddenly and stood up. He eyed Draco for a moment, then raised his hand to him – for him to shake. Draco eyed back, then took the hand.

"Thanks for telling me. This is not right. And I thought it would all be different with Kingsley in the position," he said and Draco couldn't help but sense the trace of sadness and resentment in his voice.

"It never is different, Potter," he answered.

"Nothing ever changes," Granger said and she sounded – agitated. "I'm going with you, Harry. Do you want to come too?" she looked at Draco.

He shook his head. "I just wanted to know if there were news."

"We'll let you know," Potter said and Draco couldn't shake off the feeling that there had been a shift – a shift in how they treated one another, how they looked at the other, how they perceived the other. And the trust he felt towards both of them had grown – at least five percent.

.

He needed more colours. He needed to mark the text, write in the margins, colour-code things. He needed to sort of all this, he needed a system. He needed to get to the different pens in different colours. He needed more room on his table.

Severus felt, for the first time in years, the rush of joy of learning something new, of digging his claws into new things, new material,finding out the last aspect of something, knowing more than the rest and with his step lighter than it had been in an eternity, he hopped off the bus and towards the shop to buy his pens.

.


	28. Syntactic Structures

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_One result of the formal study of grammatical structure is that a syntactic framework is brought to light which can support semantic analysis. Description of meaning can profitably refer to this underlying syntactic frame work, although systematic considerations are apparently not helpful in determining it in the first place. The notion of 'structural meaning' as opposed to 'lexical meaning', however, appears to be quite suspect, and it is questionable that the grammatical devices available in language are used consistently enough so that meaning can be assigned to them directly. Nevertheless, we do find many important correlations, quite naturally, between syntactic structure and meaning; or, to put it differently, we find that the grammatical devices are used quite systematically. These correlations could form part of the subject matter for a more general theory or language concerned with syntax and semantics and their points of connection. _

_(Chomsky, 1957)_

_._

Draco quickly debated apparating towards the University in Manchester and then finding his way to Aideen, but he supposed that it would do no good. He would look forever, would probably be found out using magic, would probably not even find her and so he decided to just go home. He had, well, planted the seed of suspicion in both Granger's and Potter's mind. But then again, he had suspected that they had known before. That they just were okay with the fact that random people (well – relatively random) were illegally drugged. And it didn't matter. He wanted nothing to do with the Ministry ever again.

He apparated, as always, into Mrs Callaghan's garden, behind the large bush, then walked through Severus's garden to the front door. Eleanor Callaghan had given him a key and he used it. He could have used Alohomara – but sometimes, Muggles were in her house, Aideen had been there and she didn't know he was a wizard. And the click of the door, the noise the key made in the lock, that was missing if he didn't use the key. It alerted the people in there that he was coming and Mrs Callaghan wanted that tiny alert. Wanted to greet him and usually always came towards him, met him in the hall when she had sent him out to get food or a paper or something else.

Not this time. He heard her voice coming from the kitchen and another voice he knew. His eyes grew wide and his stomach dropped.

That voice, that other voice he heard – it belonged to – his mother. His Mother. Narcissa Irma Malfoy.

Draco wasn't sure what to do. Clearly, there were only two possibilities – stay, or run. Severus would still be away, his back door had looked locked. To find Aideen, well, he had debated that. Wandering around? Being a coward? He shook his head to himself and quickly took two breaths, letting the air hiss out between his teeth.

The door to the kitchen was only open a crack and before pushing it open and stepping in, he listened for a moment.

"I do want him to come home," his mother said.

Mrs Callaghan sighed softly and Draco heard something poured into a cup – probably tea. Most likely tea. Knowing her the way he did. And his mother did enjoy a good cup of tea. At least he knew that about her. But he wouldn't go back. Even if she sounded like she really wanted him to go. Not everything had been the Imperius – the sending away hadn't been the Imperius, the being left out, the being sent to his room like a child hadn't been the Imperius.

And that was why he had left, why he was living with Mrs Callaghan. Not only that his father had hit her with that evil curse, not only that he had to heal her with spells he had never performed before – no. Here, he was being treated like a nineteen-year old. And despite the locked door and the mistrust concerning him and Aideen, he was someone who took part in conversations, who was asked his opinion. Who was asked to use his tool box to fix things. He received a book on do-it-yourself-projects and who was allowed to make those projects. To build things without being laughed at. Not forced to be the good _boy_ all the time. He liked it in Mrs Callaghan's house. He liked having his godfather next door, even if their talks were limited and even if he was grumpy most of the time. He liked looking at Aideen and not having to justify why he liked her. He liked the cosiness of this house, the lack of gilded things, the lack of gold. The lack of uncomfortable chairs, the lack of silver and green only rooms. The lack of canopy beds. He liked the thin mattress he slept on. And he slept well.

And he loved having someone around all the time. He loved talking to Mrs Callaghan. Just talking, having meals with her.

No, he didn't want to go back to his parents.

"I'm not sure this is wise. He, I think, needs a break from your world."

"Our world?" his mother asked.

"Witches, wizards," Mrs Callaghan replied immediately. "After what happened to his godfather and, well, me, I..."

Draco took another deep breath and pushed the door open before she could say anymore. Besides, Merlin only knew what his mother would do now that she knew Mrs Callaghan knew about witches and wizards. He didn't know what his mother did in a situation like this. And come to think of it, he didn't know his mother very well at all.

"Hello Mother," he said with a slight nod of his head.

"Draco," he could see no shock on her face. Just that artificial smile he had known all his life – no – not quite as artificial. It was a teensy bit warmer than usual. Barely noticeable though.

"Hello Mrs Callaghan," Draco smiled brightly at her though. Couldn't bring himself to smile at his own mother. Too much.

"Want a cup?" she asked, her Irish lilt stronger than when she had talked to his mother.

"Yes, please. Thanks," he still smiled, then, just as Mrs Callaghan moved to get up, he decided to go in for the kill. "I'll make it myself though," he added, sending a short, malicious smirk towards his mother, the woman dependant on house elf, the woman that had actually almost cried when they had to let go most of their house elves. Who stressed out the one they still had. Oh no, she had to understand that he wasn't like this. At least not anymore.

.

Systematically, he put the newly acquired pens on the newly cleared table and then pulled the reader from his leather bag. It still looked new, despite the fact that he had flipped through it at University and on the bus on the way home. He even understood bus travelling now; it wasn't as bad as he had thought the first time. And – Aideen had told him that he could get a cheap pass to use for a month and he had. That girl was full of information, really. Despite the fact that she hadn't warmed to him in the first place. And he could understand that. To a certain extent.

He had found some coloured sticky paper as well at the shop and had bought that as well and with new enthusiasm, pulled it from his bag as well. He would have something to do. He could dig his heels into this. And with this, with this subject, he could forget all about the Wizarding World. He had something to do and it was terribly interesting.

Carefully, Severus looked at the syllabus, then flicked open the page of the text they were supposed to read for the next week and eagerly, picked up the green pen and with a ruler under the lines, he began to read. Slowly and carefully. Underlining those things he considered important and – in addition – he made notes on his pad. He would be prepared.

And this was – fascinating. So many things were said every day by so many people – and so few people knew that there was always a second meaning, that there was always room for interpretation. So few people knew how much was going on in their brain, by hearing an every day expression like 'good morning' only. Somehow, he felt like he was being let in on a secret. Somehow, it felt like he was one of those few who truly understood. Who truly knew.

.

Severus wasn't aware that a smile had appeared on his face. A happy and content smile that nobody had seen for almost thirty years. Severus wasn't aware that he sighed happily, that he stretched his back, that he straightened his shoulders and that his nostrils filled with the scent of freshly copied paper. Severus didn't realise that he felt, deep inside, like he was stretching his legs again after being boxed up for too long.

He never noticed the smile. He never noticed how quickly the pages of his pad filled themselves, how quickly he learned.

.

"Do you honestly believe that?" Harry asked her as they stepped from the lift.

"Why should he lie?" shrugged Hermione, her hair annoying her greatly. This was what happened, she thought, when she left the house with wet hair and a hat only to prevent herself from catching cold. The curls tumbled down her back bushily, tickled her hair and the back of her neck and her cheeks. One of these days, she promised herself, she would cut it off. Just very short hair that could do whatever it wanted.

"It's Malfoy," he grumbled.

"Harry, you know how it is," she admonished, "in a situation like this, suddenly everyone is a suspect and he seemed an obvious choice. Besides, he offered to let us see the memory. He must know that we've seen enough to actually know when it's been tampered with. I honestly don't doubt that the Ministry would stop short of drugging people."

"But Kingsley..."

"He is no saint," she said darkly. "Think about it, Veritaserum is tempting, using it is tempting. It's so easy to know that you will hear exactly the truth. Imagine Muggles had it. Nobody would be in prison innocently. And I don't think they'd hesitate to use it either. Why shouldn't he? He has those great means of knowing that he will hear the truth and..."

"But it's unethical," he all but cried.

"So? This is the Ministry, Harry, not a nursery school. This is beyond unethical, they are the people who decide what's ethical and what isn't," she rubbed her eyebrow. "I'm getting a headache. I don't think I want to be here. They can do whatever they like but I want no part of it. Tell Kingsley I..."

"Hermione?"

"No, Harry, I'm sick and tired of people thinking they're doing the right thing and then using such methods. What gave him the right to drug Malfoy? Nothing but his own suspicion. And just because he was a Death Eater doesn't mean that he necessarily has to be bad. Look at Snape. He was..." she shook her head. "I'm going home. I'll have some revising to do which is far more important than this. You talk to Shacklebolt, see if he can justify it. I can't do."

"But we're already here and you're smarter than..."

She shook her head again and silenced him with a brief hug. "Sorry. This place is...I can't be here." She turned around to leave when a thought hit her. She stopped and turned half back to him. "You know," she began hesitantly, "I'm beginning to think that the curse on Snape wasn't such a bad thing. He doesn't have to deal with all these corrupted...people. It's not right, Harry. They're using Machiavellian methods and I just...sorry."

He frowned at her, then shrugged one shoulder. "If you're sure."

"I'm not sure. But I'm sure that I don't want to talk to the Minister. And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't take any drink from him," she said solemnly and stepped back into the lift. Yes, she had changed her mind. Everything in her head jumbled around – right and wrong seemed to have switched places, thoughts needed to be sorted. Machiavellian methods, yes. Means to an end. No matter what means. They had not stopped short of drugging Malfoy. They had not stopped short of taking Snape's wand. What else wouldn't they stop short of?

The Muggle world in comparison seemed like a sane place at this moment.

.

"Draco, your father wasn't himself. He wants you to come back. We have standards to uphold..."

"Standards I could never live up to, Mother," he replied coldly, looking into her cold eyes, then immediately turned to Mrs Callaghan and looked into her pale green ones. Eyes that were warm and loving. Woman had given him more love and more understanding in a few weeks than his parents had given him in their entire life. In his entire life.

"We were in no position to..."

"I don't want to hear it," he shouted angrily, banging his tea cup back onto the saucer. "I was told that I had to do this and that because my family expected it, because I had a duty towards my family. And what did it bring me? What, Mother?"

"Draco, love, no shouting," Mrs Callaghan admonished mildly.

"Would you please leave as alone?" his mother had the audacity to ask.

"It's her fucking house," Draco spat. "And you think you can ask her to leave? What're you going to do next, curse her, like your sainted oh-so-under-the-Imperius-husband did? Or obliviate like Severus's mother did? I will not have it," he pulled his wand from his pocket and raised it towards his mother. "Try it."

"Draco," Mrs Callaghan said softly and put her hand on his arm. "If you need a minute alone..."

"No, we don't need a minute alone. I'm done with you," he shouted again. "You come here like you own the place and at home, you'll wrinkle your nose because it's so dingy and so Muggle. You will laugh about it with Father and you will order that house elf around to do your dirty work. You never lifted a finger in your life and you think you can order honest, decent people around. You and Father. You never needed an Imperius curse to send me out of the room. 'Do as you're told, Draco'," he mocked. "No."

"Draco, we only wanted your best," his mother said softly.

"Best? Was this for the best?" he shoved his sleeve back and pushed his left, marred arm towards her. The faded Dark Mark, though only a faint, greyish scar stood out from his pale skin. "That was what was best for me?"

"You wanted this, Draco. We didn't force you."

"You didn't force me? That's rich, Mother. 'Oh, Draco, we have to...your Father...disgrace...you're our only hope...' Not force me? What then?" he got up and glared down at his mother.

.

Something was wrong, Severus thought, as he had stopped reading his fascinating text. There was shouting next door. Loud shouting. Draco shouting. He couldn't hear Eleanor but Draco shouting...that boy lost his temper so quickly and so viciously...

He didn't hesitate a moment, didn't wait and went through the back door, pulled himself up on the wall and jumped over it. Astonishing how quickly his physical strength had returned. Truly astonishing. He fell on his feet on Eleanor's patio and risked a glance inside the kitchen – and his eyes widened.

.

"Draco!" Eleanor said loudly and walked around the table to where the boy stood next to his mother, his wand pointed at her neck. She rested her hands on his arms and pulled them gently but with enough strength, to her, pinned them to his sides and effectively, pulled him to her, hugged him from behind. "You mustn't do that," she whispered in his ear. "You'll only get into trouble, and I don't want that."

He slacked against her, his left hand grasping hers when, at the same moment, the back door was pushed open and Severus, in his beautiful black jumper stood there, his growing hair tucked behind his ears, a curious expression on his face.

"Narcissa," he drawled coldly. "Stealing more books?"

.


	29. The Semantical Conception of Truth

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The word "true," like other words from our everyday language, is certainly not unambiguous. And it does not seem to me that the philosophers who have discussed this concept have helped to diminish its ambiguity. In works and discussions of philosophers we meet many different conceptions of truth and falsity, and we must indicate which conception will be the basis of our discussion. _

_We should like our definition to do justice to the intuitions which adhere to the classical Aristotelian conception of truth - intuitions which find their expression in the well-known words of Aristotle's Metaphysics:_

To say of what is that it is not, or of what is not that it is, is false, while to say of what is that it is, or of what is not that it is not, is true.

_If we wished to adapt ourselves to modern philosophical terminology, we could perhaps express this conception by means of the familiar formula _

The truth of a sentence consists in its agreement with (or correspondence to) reality.

(Tarski, 1944)

.

Severus sneered. It was what came easiest to him upon seeing that woman. Narcissa Malfoy. Hair perfectly coiffed, in clothes that would be considered old-fashioned in the Muggle world, but could, at least, be considered Mugglish enough for her to wear. A long, Victorian skirt (or plenty of skirts, Severus didn't have a clue about women's dresses), a ruffled blouse, a fur coat, mink, probably, which she had carefully no doubt and with a Dirt-Repelling Charm, hung over the chair she sat on. Draco behind her – and behind him, Eleanor, holding him to her.

And it was so easy to make her glare at him. That woman's mask slipped with so little effort – if one knew which buttons to push; and Severus, from years of having to interact with her, did.

"We weren't stealing your books," she snapped. "We were selling them for you. Lucius was doing it for you."

"How nice," he sneered still, wrinkling his large nose minutely – but effectively – in disgust. "Sinking so low now? And once more pulling the Imperius-trick from the hat. Ministry must be as daft as ever."

"It wasn't a trick this time," she spat. "And you know it. He wouldn't hurt a friend of yours."

"Yes. But you would, wouldn't you? Any Muggle..." he only looked at her and from the corner of his eyes, he could see how Eleanor pulled Draco out of the kitchen. The boy wasn't protesting and the boy wasn't fighting against her. Why Eleanor knew that it was best for him to talk to this woman alone, he didn't know – but he, honestly, preferred it that way. There were a few things that he wanted to tell her now – now that he had recovered from his shock. Now that he could so easily see through her without the need to try and use Legilimency on her.

He heard the door to the kitchen close with a soft click and then sat down, across from her, both his hands on the table, fingers stapled together.

"May I ask what you do here?"

"I came for my son, as you very well know," she said angrily. "I don't know what you tell him or what that old hag did..."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Narcissa, forgetting your manners? She is your hostess..."

"She's a Mu..."

"Careful, careful," he smiled maliciously.

"Muggle then. She's just a Muggle."

"And lose the 'just a'," he cautioned, his eyebrows raised in mock exasperation. Yes, he was aware of the fact that she could hex him at any moment, that she probably would, but that didn't mean he would be intimidated by her. He could break that woman's arm quicker than she could pull her wand. "Ever the Black, aren't you, Narcissa?"

The high and mighty pureblooded princess who had to marry Lucius because the parents thought she had been too spoilt to be with a man with less means and needed someone nouveaux riches. Even if his ancestors came from France and even if there was, he knew, a half-blood great-grandmother in the mix somewhere. The Blacks, back then, had been desperate for money – and the Malfoys the one to provide it. Unfortunate though that Lucius really seemed to love her – or seemed to have had loved her. No. Lucius, he figured, wasn't the only dark one in this family – he might have been even lighter than his wife. Even though she did love the son that her husband had given her. Strange family – and what utter dysfunctionality compared to the Callaghans.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she spat. "I'm a Malfoy."

"No, you're a Black, through and through. Arrogant like the rest of them, always thinking you're a bit better. Always thinking you can order anyone around, including your own son. You will lose him," he smiled evilly again, "Like your parents lost your sister, like your aunt and uncle lost that good for nothing son of their. Oh, think about it, Narcissa. Your son and Sirius Black being considered the rebels."

"I've trusted you."

"You bring up old stories," he shook his head. "You did not trust me, you needed me. And you wanted me dead. I had the place of Lucius and you couldn't stand the thought. Draco might have been a child but you thought he would live up to your expectations. And your expectations for him were to kill Dumbledore. You wanted me to take the vow because you wanted to see me dead."

"That is not true."

He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. "Truth is a matter of opinion in this."

"I trusted you then. I trusted you to keep your godson safe," she shrieked.

"The walls are thin, Narcissa. Very thin. I don't think I owe you any kind of explanation but for the sake of it, I will. If only for entertainment, I will provide one. I had ever intention of keeping Draco safe, with, or without the vow. If he had listened to me, if he had trusted me the way you claim you did, he would have come to me. He did not because you told him what needed to be done for the family. Your high and mighty family. I hear you only have one mingy house elf left? He tried to do what you wanted him to do. Lucius wouldn't have allowed it and you know it."

"Lucius is a coward," she spat. "And weak."

"Showing your true colours now? I seem to have that effect on you."

"It was his decision to make you his godfather. I wouldn't have..."

"No. Lousy half-blood. I know," he mocked her, then got up from the chair and walked around the table. He was almost tempted to have his back towards her, just to see if she would curse him or hex him – but then again, he wasn't that careless. Instead, he kept his eyes on her and on the hand he saw twitching near the pocket of her coat. Oh, simple Narcissa. In a swift movement, he had taken her wand from her pocket and twirled it around between his fingers.

"Lousy half-blood," he repeated. "And now without magic. You should take better care of yours."

"You filthy..."

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," he kept the wand in his hand and walked around the table to sit down again. "You underestimate people. You always did. It's the inherent Black-arrogance. Don't worry about that wand. You'll get it back."

"What do you want from me?" she glared at him, angry, very angry.

"I want nothing from you. You came here."

"I want my son back."

"You lost your son the moment you claimed to know what was best for him. You lost him the moment that He marked him. You lost him the moment you expected him to fulfil His quest. You should have stood up to Him. Lucius would have. Lucius would have suffered through one or two Crucios and Lucius would have persuaded him to believe that Draco was still too young. Or he would have tried at least. You offered him up on a silver platter. No, make that a green and silver Slytherin platter. Thinking you could come up on top again. Where do you stand now, Narcissa? Do people even look at you anymore?" he asked, the wand between his fingers, holding it like a conductor would hold his baton.

"Why do you say things like that?" she obviously changed her tactics now – and out came a whiny, almost crying voice.

"Because you needed to hear them."

"I love my son!"

"I don't doubt it," he drawled. "But you always were a snake and I believe that as a mother, you'd better been a lioness."

"You talk utter rubbish..."

"Yes, it did come out a bit poetic, didn't it?" he grinned. "It was all a part of the big plan. Draco would have killed Albus Dumbledore, and you had already fancied yourself in the role of a first lady to Him. You know, with Him having no wife, you'd've been the one representing and being the hostess to all events. The one woman all other women wanted to be like. Shame it didn't work out like this."

"Give me my wand, and I'll leave," she spat.

"Can't bear to hear the truth?"

"Lucius was right in cursing that...thing," spit was being pushed between her perfect teeth as she spoke. It wasn't pretty.

"Oh, so he did do it? No Imperius?"

"He was under the Imperius, the weakling. Not even able to resist that," she almost shouted.

"Interesting. Must have been someone rather powerful to cast the curse," he pondered, never taking his eyes off her.

"He's weak."

"You know...I have been wondering, Draco keeps me informed, whether it was you who cursed him?"

She actually began to laugh – loud and almost vulgar sounding. A bit like her sister Bellatrix. "Want to use Veritaserum, oh apothecary?" she tried to turn the tables on him. "The Ministry did. It wasn't me. I should have, but it wasn't me. Oh, and poor apothecary can't do magic anymore. I should have done that too."

Apothecary – the word that He had called him in the beginning. He had never wanted to hear it again – but she wouldn't find that out.

"And what a life this is, Narcissa. Can you imagine that it might be good? Not being under the rule of the Ministry anymore? Not even being considered put under Veritaserum? I know what it feels like. A helpless haze of chattering. Felt helpless then, I guess. But at least they're thorough these days and didn't only question my godson."

She squinted her eyes. That was obviously new information. Not that it mattered to him.

"I suggest, Madam Malfoy, that you leave. And leave your son be. He is getting what he needs here – and what you could never give him."

"I gave him all he needed and you know it!"

"Clothes, food, yes. Money, yes. Well, wait, no money now. You will never understand it. You're like Him in that respect. To you, love is something that you feel but never show. Or, wait, something that you ought to feel but don't know what it feels like. You're as cold as a dead snake in the snow. You need to be shown affection in order to feel it though. You need to be reassured that there is love. And that is something you never knew and could never do."

"My son knows I love him," he had the feeling her hair, from that one flat, silvery-blonde plain was growing fizzier and curlier as they spoke. But maybe it was just his imagination.

"I doubt it," he said seriously, then took a deep breath. "Go back home and leave him be. And leave me be."

"I want my son to come with me," a tear now – oh, how he hated those female tactics – slid down her cheek. "I miss my son."

He sighed again, then shook his head. "He doesn't miss home, and I doubt he misses you. He wants to be there and if you love him, you let him be here until he finds himself."

"What kind of an answer is that?" another tear – another cheek.

"An honest one. I will leave this kitchen now and will leave your wand on the table. I'll return in thirty seconds and I hope you will be gone by then," he said, knowing he had the advantage that he would be through the door before she could reach her wand. "Good bye, Narcissa."

"I want my son," she almost wailed.

He didn't answer, instead he put the wand slowly on the table and left the kitchen, closing the door firmly. There was a crash inside but he only saw the four questioning eyes looking at him, then a faint pop from the inside and he knew she was gone.

He shrugged tiredly to Eleanor and Draco and left the house through the front door. He wanted to forget what had just happened.

.


	30. Langue et Parole

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_atomicmom, this is for you! (insert evil snickering here, please)_

_._

_The (dichotomic) concept of __language/speech__is central in Saussure and was certainly a great novelty in relation to earlier linguistics which sought to find the causes of historical changes in the evolution of pronunciation, spontaneous associations and the working of analogy, and was therefore a linguistics of the individual act. In working out this famous dichotomy, Saussure started from the multiform and heterogeneous' nature of language, which appears at first sight as an unclassifiable reality' the unity of which cannot be brought to light, since it partakes at the same time of the physical, the physiological, the mental, the individual and the social. Now this disorder disappears if, from this heterogeneous whole, is extracted a purely social object, the systematised set of conventions necessary to communication, indifferent to the ____material __of the signals which compose it, and which is a __language_ _(langue)____; __as opposed to which __speech (parole)__covers the purely individual part of language (phonation, application of the rules and contingent combinations of signs). _

(Barthes, 1964)

.

Door were banging and banging doors were never a good sign. Banging doors meant that Harry was in a horrible mood. Banging doors were a sign that this had not gone as Harry had suspected. And that, Hermione thought, had been the reason why she had not gone at all. After all, who were they? Just two barely of age people, who had, admittedly, fought in a war, and had, according to some, some pull with some people. But in the eyes of those who really knew – they were nothing but children. Not that that was right and they had fought more battles than most of those Ministry-employees, but they were young and inexperienced, at least concerning politics. She was.

"That bastard," Harry huffed as he let himself fall into one of those squishy, comfy armchairs in the library (armchairs she had brought from her parents' house).

"Why? What did he say?"

"What did he say? That the end, as you said, justifies the means. That morality has no place in politics and is short-lived and arbitrary. That's what he said."

"Doesn't sound like him," Hermione frowned.

"Nope," he popped the 'p', "but he believes in it, I think. I think he truly thinks that this is the way to, quote, rule, unquote, the Wizarding World."

"He said that?"

"He said that. And no, he's not under the Imperius," he shrugged. "At least not that I've noticed. He says he doesn't have to explain his reasons to me but that, quite simply, he had the responsibility and he wanted to make life better in our world," he dropped his head into his hands and stared, seemingly, at his shoes.

"And you're sure he's not under the Imperius? He doesn't sound like the Kingsley Shacklebolt I remember..."

He shrugged again. "I doubt it, to be honest. I mean, I can't be sure but he did seem quite lucid, quite normal. Like it all made sense. And he said that he's not randomly handing out Veritaserum, but only gives it to those that he thinks is under suspicion."

"And that without consent?"

"Do you think any of the Malfoys would give their consent?"

"If they were innocent, why not? But this way, I mean, they're not utterly stupid...wait...any of the Malfoys? Did..."

"Draco's mother as well, yes."

"Do they, or the Minister in this case, realise that they're only driving them further away? That they might give them cause to actually, turn Dark? I mean..."

"I don't know," he sighed. "But...Malfoy is still in St Mungo's, did you know that?"

Hermione frowned. "Why?"

"Well..." he paused pensively and ran his fingers through his hair. "Kingsley only said that, erm, Lucius fought against the removal of the Imperius – or against his being held at the Ministry. He wouldn't tell me more but he seems to be injured."

"Injured? By the Ministry-people?"

He shrugged again and slumped deeper into the armchair. "I haven't said anything definite yet but... I'm thinking about, you know, taking a break from Auror training."

"Harry! Really?"

"Really. I mean if it's..." he shrugged again. "It's not Light and Dark. It's not two things. It's grey and grey and grey. And even the _good_ people use methods that are not good. And all this morality is short-lived and arbitrary..."

"Machiavellian," Hermione interrupted.

"Look, I don't know what you meant by that earlier and I don't know what you mean by it now but..."

"Harry, really," she tutted, and waved her wand towards a book-shelf. "Even the Blacks have his books here," she muttered and _The Prince_ fell into his lap. "Read!"

"No, I don't want to read that. You always tell me to read. I..."

"Don't get angry at me," she hissed.

"I'm not angry at you," he glared at her nevertheless, "But you throw around words that I don't understand and instead of explaining in the simple language," he mocked her, "that I need, you drop a book in my lap."

"Harry..."

"No, just stuff it. I'm going out," he replied, very annoyed and got up, threw the book on the floor, and left the library without a look back and without saying another word.

Hermione, naturally, picked up the book first before she ran her fingers through her curls – full of tangles. She should have known, letting it dry naturally – tangles. Inevitable. Harry getting angry when he noticed that not everything was as it seemed – inevitable. Him running out instead of calmly talking about things – inevitable.

And her, being left with the puzzle to solve. The puzzle, in her opinion, wasn't so much on why the Minister acted that way. She could see, rather plainly, that he wanted to bring peace to the Wizarding World and that he employed all the little methods that may or may not be perfectly legal, perfectly morally correct, but those that would bring in the results. It was a rather cold way of thinking – and maybe, Hermione thought, it wasn't so much a distinction between black and white, Light and Dark, right and wrong anymore but human and inhuman, cold and warm, loving and unloving. Maybe, she thought, people in those positions, like the Minister, lost their humanity when the took office. Didn't seem so obviously outlandish to her. Quite on the contrary, probably. He needed to be the figure that people looked up to and that demanded respect. Respect – and that was different from love.

Not that she claimed to know what the Minister was really like – she wasn't even sure whether he had a wife to come home to, or a girlfriend or a boyfriend. She knew nothing about him personally – but as a Minister, and for the time being, she couldn't respect him. Not for so clearly ignoring all the clearly, commonly excepted rules of morality.

She pulled her feet up on the armchair, the very faint scent of her father that still remained in the fabric, enveloping her and closed her eyes – thinking that she might have to, calmly, talk to Draco again. At least to tell him that his father was in St Mungo's. Poor him hadn't seemed to know that.

.

Eleanor put a plate of biscuits on the table and another cup of tea in front of Draco. The poor boy seemed utterly confused and lost. As she did with Severus, usually (who was best left alone for the time being), she sat next to him and not across from him. She knew she had a way of making them talk. And she knew that those two boys trusted her.

"I know Severus's side of the story, obviously, but I don't know yours," she began calmly, taking a biscuit, he took one as well and nibbled on it, "and you've been living with me for a while now and I know there are times when something is clearly bothering you."

"It's all in the past," he said, staring at something she couldn't see – something in his past, probably.

"I can piece things together," she said pensively. "Were you being told to kill someone?"

He said nothing for a long time. He nibbled on his biscuit, then took a sip of tea before he nibbled again. "Yes," he said.

"Is it easier to kill someone with your wand than it is for Muggles?" she asked slowly.

"I wouldn't know," he said hesitantly. "You...they say you have to mean it but...I couldn't...I was a coward."

"A coward? For not killing someone?" she slowly shifted closer to him but for the time being, just let him feel her warmth close, not touching him.

"That's what they said," he bit his lip.

"They?"

"My mother. Some of her...the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord..."

"The what?"

"Lord Voldemort," he stuttered slightly.

"Oh him. Severus told me about him. And he said you're a coward? Because you couldn't kill?"

"Yes."

"Well," she sighed, "I said this to Severus because he was talking about cowardice too, and I'd say this to you and I trust you to be smart enough to believe me," she took a deep breath, "you – and Severus for that matter – are no cowards. This Lord Voldemort, he was. He was the ultimate coward."

Draco looked at her, puzzled.

"He did not even have the bravery to face death," she smiled softly. "He was afraid of death because he knew what was coming. And for the likes of him, there can only be hell. Eternal, burning hell. And he was the coward for not wanting to face that."

"Wizards are no Christians, Mrs Callaghan," Draco said softly, probably, Eleanor thought, glad that he was out of the focus for the time being.

"Severus said a similar thing," she smirked, "strange how you two are alike. But you must have an afterlife. You must believe in a sort of afterlife. Most people do. And most believe that there will be...consequences of what you do in life. What you do in life, every good deed, and every bad deed, it will come back, it echoes in eternity and wanting to escape that eternity, is cowardice. Severus told me things – and what did that man have? He had no love, he never felt love. Think about the basics, Draco. What did he come home to?"

"He had his snake," the boy said in a little voice.

"Yes. A pet," she sighed. "He was a coward. He never wanted to let anyone in. But of course this is what I know only from what Severus told me. I can't judge it really. But you're not a coward for not being able to kill someone. And Severus is the least coward that I've ever met. And look at you, Draco. You come here, you come into a completely different world and you adapt and you deal with it and you...you're no coward. A coward would have hidden at home and would have never wanted to see anything but his own four walls. You went out into the world anew. You made a fresh start. That requires bravery."

"I didn't do anything, I just...what could I do? My parents they're...my mother...when my father was Azkaban, she...Severus was right. All he said was right," he put his face in his hands and Eleanor couldn't resist slowly stroking his back and run her fingers through his hair, "I grew up like...I never was hugged just because. I was hugged as a reward. I was told to make friends with Harry Potter and when I failed...I...they let me know that I've failed them. They let me know that I wasn't worthy. That I couldn't even manage such a simple task."

He fell silent. Eleanor knew from Severus that Harry Potter was the boy who had come in front of her house at Christmas, she knew that he had been the one, ultimately, to dispose of that Lord Voldemort person. She knew that there was no love lost between all of them.

"But I went to him this morning when I went out."

She nodded only. She had, naturally, wanted to know where he had gone but he had told her that he needed to go out for a while – and nothing more. Now to hear that he had gone to see that Harry Potter – strange.

"I wanted to know...my father...I haven't...did my mother say where he was? Before I came in, I mean."

She nodded again but he couldn't see it, had his face still almost pressed against his hands that rested on the top of the table. "She said he was in hospital."

"In hospital?" his head shot up. "She didn't tell me. Why didn't she tell me?"

Eleanor shrugged. "I assume...she would have." Oh, she did not want to defend that awful woman but what choice did she have?

"Did she say why?" his eyes were full of – fear – worry? She wasn't sure.

"Sorry, love, no," she smiled and didn't hold back this time but hugged the poor boy who had never been hugged just because. In this house – hugs were no rewards. In this house, hugs were for...just because.

.

Carefully, Severus read the syllabus, the lesson plans once more, the information this professor, Dr Deveney, had given on it. Her office hours were on there and phone numbers and...email. Whatever email was.

_Essays can be sent in via email. _

_Otherwise, please print your paper in Times New Roman or Ariel, font size twelve, double-spaced. _

Print? Times New Roman? Ariel? Double-spaced? He had lived most years as a Wizard. He knew quills. He knew ink, he knew parchment. Times New Roman? Ariel? Font size twelve?

There was only one thing to do. He was sure that some people, who had known him as a Wizard, could answer those questions – Hermione Granger would know – but he'd be damned to ask that witch for advice. No. Aideen, although she didn't know that he had been a wizard, thought that they, him and Draco, were indeed strange, and she would answer.

Besides, how had Eleanor phrased it? _You and me, Severus, in her eyes, we're old._

Gingerly, he picked up the phone he had had installed just after Christmas, the phone which rang about twice a week, either Kathleen or Stephen who were wanting to know how Eleanor was faring. But he had a few numbers collected, and one Aideen had written down for him, had told him to use it if he had any problems. And Times New Roman, email, Ariel, font size twelve, double-spaced, that was a problem.

With a finger on the number, he dialled it. It was as it had been when he had been a child. There was no round dial plate. There was no sticking your fingers into holes and turning the dial. He only had to punch a few buttons.

"Hello?" he heard almost immediately and there was a lot of background noise. Oh yes, she had explained that this was her mobile phone. Something that hadn't existed when he had been young. A phone you could carry around with you, a phone that you could use everywhere.

"Erm, hello," he said hesitantly.

"Severus?" she asked. "Hi."

"Yes, it is I," why she called him by his given name, he didn't know. But she did and had been since she had almost slapped him.

"Everything alright?" she asked brightly.

"No," he said. This was embarrassing. Asking a child a question which he couldn't answer himself.

"What's the matter?"

"I...er...I have a, er, paper here from my class."

"Okay?"

"And it says: Essays can be sent in via email. Otherwise, please print your paper in Times New Roman or Ariel, font size twelve, double-spaced."

"Oh, you don't have a computer?" Aideen asked innocently and Severus looked utterly confused. Computer. Yes, he remember faintly. Big things that ran bigger things. Like...a calculator, only bigger. He remembered.

"No," he said.

"Gran doesn't have one either even though I've been telling her to get one for ages," she laughed. "Erm, listen, I have one more class now but if you meet me in front of the Arndale in, erm, let's say two hours, we can get you one. I know that they have an offer in Comet. And I think they install the internet as well for you but we'd have to ask. I need to go in anyway. Curious what they did already after the bombing, wasn't it?"

Bombing yes. Or not. Things were often perceived differently by Muggles. Didn't matter. Didn't matter that this had been, well, a well-placed Imperius and, for the first time in Death Eating history, a decent Muggle cover-up. Didn't matter.

He nodded. He could catch the bus and meet her there. Anything to find out what all of this was about. Besides, he had checked his balance on his account lately – and the Social gave him rather a lot of money. There was a lot on his account. Eleanor had been surprised about it at first, but then the next day, she had never even mentioned it again. Maybe she got less, maybe the Social had made a mistake but for the time being, he didn't want to think about it. Obviously he needed a computer – and such things couldn't be cheap, and that's where the money came in handy.

"Severus? Are you still there?" Aideen squealed into the phone.

"Yes. I will come into town," he answered shortly.

"Oh good, listen I need to go, my class is about to start and...stop hitting me...bye Severus."

He shook his head. Those phone calls were always strange but he would – well, he would buy a computer with Aideen. And that would, most certainly, make him completely forget about Narcissa's unfortunate visit.

.


	31. Concept and Object

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_In the sentence 'The Morning Star is Venus', we have two proper names, 'Morning Star' and 'Venus', for the same object. In the sentence 'The Morning Star is a planet' we have a proper name, 'the Morning Star', and a concept word, 'planet'. So far as language goes, no more has happened than that 'Venus' has been replaced by 'a planet'; but really the relation has become wholly different. An equation is reversible; an object's falling under a concept is an irreversible relation. In the sentence 'The Morning Star is Venus', 'is' is obviously not a mere copula; its concept is an essential part of the predicate, so that the word 'Venus' does not constitute the whole of the predicate. One might say instead: 'The Morning Star is no other than Venus'; what was previously implicit in the single word 'is' is here set forth in four separate words, and in 'is no other than' the word 'is' now really is the mere copula. What is predicated here is thus not Venus but no other than Venus. These words stand for [bedeuten] a concept; admittedly only one object falls under this, but such a concept must still always be distinguished from the object. We have here a word 'Venus' than can never be a proper predicate, although it can form part of a predicate. The _Bedeutung _of this word is thus something that can never occur as a concept, but only as an object._

_(Frege, 1892)_

_._

Well, she had not been able to disentangle any of the curls on her head and it looked like a very huge bird had built a nest there. Magic didn't help when it was like this, she knew and so, she washed her hair, put in massive amounts of Sleakeazy's, before she apparated away, before she went to where she had to go, where she wanted to go. Not that she had any new information on Lucius Malfoy, or new if he even was still at St Mungo's, but she felt like Draco would shed light on the entire thing, that he could, maybe, even make her own thought process clearer. Hell, ever since she had been sorted into Gryffindor, it had been clear that there was right and wrong and Gryffindor and Slytherin. And now that image was, well, shaken. A lot.

And so, because she knew that Draco was staying with Snape's Muggle neighbour, who had seemed rather old and probably conservative, and because Malfoy was still a wizard (though, as far as she remembered, he had worn jeans the day before when he had come to see them), she opted for a knee-length black skirt and a light blue blouse and threw her mother's vintage coat over her shoulders. The one she had never before been allowed to wear and had now, that they didn't come back, snatched up (as she had most of her mother's other old clothes, well, the pretty ones and the mini-skirts from the sixties).

With a last glance in the mirror and a last look at her soft and gentle waves (she really had to thank those Sleakeazy people), she stepped out onto Grimmauld Place and apparated away.

.

"Draco, there's a job advertisement in the paper," Eleanor said gently. She couldn't make it more obvious than this, really, but it wasn't even the middle of the month and money was running, well, out. Not that she minded having Draco living there but with him and Severus staying there so often for meals, she had to buy more than she usually had to buy for herself, and even though Severus was getting a lot of money from the social and that money Draco had mentioned from those Wizarding people, she was loath to ask him for money. And if Draco could just chip in a little, it would make it so much simpler on her. And if she could only bring Draco, who had no money himself, bring to get a job, even a part-time job, and if he could just give her a little, well, rent...

"What kind of job?" he asked, looking only mildly interested.

"It's retail," she answered, a little snippy. Yes, she had to be patient with the boy. It wasn't his fault that he had been privileged enough to grow up completely unconcerned with money. But maybe, and as embarrassing as it was, she would have to explain to him (and maybe to Severus, even though he would be utterly mortified) that money was scarce.

"What?"

"Selling things."

"Ikea?"

"No, not Ikea. Clothes," she replied, her patience wearing thin. She wasn't usually that way but she had slept badly after Aideen had brought Severus home with one of those laptop-computers and after she had asked her for twenty quid. Twenty quid she had given her granddaughter. And now, there wasn't so much left. She had thought and thought and thought and there was only...Draco needed the chip in. That was all there was to it. And her bones had hurt, her joints, everything had hurt. Her back had hurt and the scar on her, well, breast, had itched, again. She usually wasn't one to complain. But she felt tired and worn out. Listening to those stories of Draco's and of Severus's, stories of dead people, of torturing, of how she had herself almost died, it had made her thick skin thinner. And Severus had grumbled away most of the night – she could hear it through the wall. She had known a laptop-computer-thing had been a bad idea.

Draco stared at her for a moment, then frowned. "How do I..."

"You go to the bloody shop and ask," she almost shouted. Her back hurt. She hadn't slept. And she didn't have the nerve, at the moment, to listen to Severus shouting through the wall (which he did) and having to explain to Draco how to get a job. She swallowed, tried to walk through the pain in her back as she had been told decades ago by her late husband. It had never worked, hadn't decades ago and wasn't now. She needed to...

"Are you alright?" the boy asked, and almost seemed worried about her. That kind of broke her and her bad mood, but only kind of and she arched her eyebrows and nodded.

"Yes, fine," she nodded and tried a little, tired smile and decided on, well, partial honesty, "I just didn't sleep well."

"Severus was up quite long, wasn't he?" the boy smiled gently.

"I knew it was a bad idea to get a laptop-computer-thing," she huffed. "You will check about that job?"

The boy looked at her questioningly, then, suddenly, nodded. "I will go later."

"Good," she fell silent and pretended to read the paper. Maybe, she thought, he had understood. Most likely, he hadn't, but how could she tell him that they were basically broke and that it wasn't even the middle of the month? She was so deep in thought that the doorbell ringing was making her jump. "I'll get it," she said, clutching one hand to her chest, the other, as she was getting up, supporting her aching back. Maybe, she thought, not looking at the boy, she needed a new mattress. The old one, in her old bed, the bed she had shared with Michael, was well-worn, was lumpy. No money for that at the moment.

Eleanor sighed softly just before she opened the door.

.

"Bloody bugger," Severus swore, loudly, and glared at the bloody laptop in front of him. Whatever Aideen had made to make him buy this thing, he would take it back. Yes, yes, the bloody shop-person had explained everything and for a quick second, he thought, he had been able to be on the mysterious internet. For a quick second only, that modem thing he had used, the one he had to put a cord into and the other end of the cord into his laptop (which said, mysteriously, ThinkPad on the front. Not that it helped him thinking), had made a weird noise, and had then fallen silent. Had then made more weird noises and then silence again. He had a book in front of him, a manual but that wasn't any help either.

And to think that he had sat in front of the bloody thing until his eyes had hurt, until he had no longer been able to keep them open. And that that morning, nothing, absolutely nothing had changed. It still showed the same screen with the same background when he switched it on, and then, nothing.

Oh, he wasn't absolutely stupid, he had read the manual so far that he had been able to install (that was the word he had learned) a few programmes that he had to – according to the manual – have to absolutely have on that thing. But so far, it didn't help him any. There were some card games on there which were silly, and a programme, he had figured that out, which he could use to write things up. Something Office or Word or something. And there, he had, incidentally, figured out, what Times New Roman and Arial meant. And font size twelve. The double-spaced still was a mystery but he would figure that out in due time.

It was the email bit that bothered him now. Email. Yes, email required internet. Internet required that modem-thing to make weird noises and to actually not fall silent in the middle of making weird noises. That required him to put the other cord from the modem-thing to be plugged into the phone line. So far, yes, all clear. He could read a manual. But why it then failed, he had absolutely no idea. Absolutely none.

He glared a little more and suddenly, the screen went black. Just black.

He growled low in his throat. It was a mistake having bought that thing. This would have been a sure way to vanquish the Dark Lord. Letting him deal with a laptop.

He pressed the button to switch it on again and nothing happened.

"Idiotic dunderheaded, stupid technology!" he cursed loudly.

.

"Hi," Hermione smiled as brightly as she could and raised her hand towards the older woman. A woman who could have easily been her grandmother. "I'm Hermione Granger. I'm a, erm, I went to school with Draco. Is he here?"

"You're the girl who came with that other boy who came to bother Severus," she looked at her suspiciously.

"Erm, yes. Just after he came, er, back here," she still smiled but she knew it was a little forced.

"Well," the old woman (and she wasn't sure what she was called) sighed. "Come in. Draco is in the kitchen."

She nodded her thanks and stepped in. "Do you want me to, erm, take off my shoes?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the old woman snapped. "Through there."

Hermione nodded again. And Draco lived with that woman? Her face was pinched, she clutched her back, she couldn't even, the way Hermione saw it, walk straight. No wonder she had that pinched expression on her face if she was in pain. At least she looked like she was in pain. And Draco was still a wizard, still able to whip up a potion for that. And even if Snape wasn't able to use his magic, she was sure he would still have those recipes stuck in his head somewhere.

But maybe, she wasn't in pain at all and this was just, well, her. And Malfoy lived with a sour-faced, moody old woman. She didn't dare to ask but followed that woman, silently, into the kitchen.

"Granger," Malfoy said, sounding very surprised.

"Hi," she tried to smile a little. "I erm...came to, your father is in hospital."

"I know," he said, frowning. And really, what more could she say with the old woman looming over them? Well, not looming actually but rather making tea. "Is this why you came here?"

"I, erm...I wanted to ask you about that thing...you know, where you went on Christmas. The thing...you told Harry and me about," she had not anticipated a Muggle being there. How could she talk to him about the Ministry and the Minister and the Veritaserum if there was a Muggle? She wasn't breaking that Statute of Secrecy. Not even close. She didn't want to. She couldn't.

"What do you want to know?" Malfoy smirked and Hermione, well, she felt completely out of her depths. Why was he smirking? That was no smirking matter. None at all. She actually felt a little better when she felt that old woman taking her coat and pushing her down on a chair, setting a cup of tea in front of her.

"Thank you, er, Mrs..."

"Callaghan, dear," she replied and smiled – tiredly? Painfully? Hermione couldn't tell.

"I'll leave you two to it. I'll be upstairs and...see about that job, will you?" she said, definitely tiredly and in pain and smiled gently at Malfoy who nodded, almost immediately.

Hermione watched her walk away, watched the way she held her back and pulled the left leg slightly behind her and as soon as she could hear the woman, Mrs Callaghan, on the steps, she bent over the table.

"Can't you make a potion for her?" she hissed.

"What potion?"

"She's in pain, for Merlin's sake, didn't you see? A blind person could have seen it. Her back and her left leg."

Draco frowned. "What?"

"Seriously," she huffed. "Her left leg. The way she pulled it sort of, you know, behind her other leg. And the way she held her back, pressing against it."

"Oh," he said, sounding quite un-Malfoyesque. "I hadn't...listen, what did you come here for anyway?"

"Your father is in St Mungo's. I thought you'd like to know. And we wa...well, I want to know what's going on at the Ministry. And with the Minister."

"Grasping power, Granger."

"Do you know what happened to your father?" she ignored his answer.

He shook his head. "No. I went to St Mungo's last night but he was sleeping and they only let me in for about two minutes."

"Really? Why?"

"Why should I tell you this?" he asked, the expression on his face growing cold.

"Because I want to help. Because I want to know what's going on and why things have turned upside down. Why this happened to your father and why that happened to Professor Snape," she hissed, and was, obviously, rather unhappy about the way this conversation was going.

Malfoy said – nothing. He just took a sip of his tea, and then another, seemed to ponder something. "You're a Mu..."

She arched her eyebrows dangerously but said nothing.

"I wasn't going to say Mudblood. I was going to say Muggleborn," he huffed. "Can you get that expression off your face?"

"Sorry," she shrugged one shoulder, feeling very hot in her coat but wasn't sure whether it was appropriate, or right, to take it off. Even though she had taken care with her appearance. "You were going to say?"

"How much money...I mean..." he was interrupted, suddenly, by a loud bang that seemed to come from right behind her and even though she whipped her head around quickly and had her wand in hand immediately, she still caught the widening of eyes from Draco. There was another loud bang. Like someone was throwing something. Against a wall.

"What's..."

"Shit. I...well, you would know. You're a Muggleborn," he said, almost sounding desperate. "Come along," he added and even though she had no idea where they were going when they left the kitchen, even though she had no idea what he was pulling her into, she followed him, her wand, inside the pocket of her mother's vintage coat in her hands. He led her outside the back door, and on a stepladder. In a skirt. She had to follow him on a stepladder over a wall (even though it was only, well, not very high) and jump down on the other side. In a skirt. And tights. And in her good shoes.

"Where are we going?" she asked, knowing full well that they now stood on Severus Snape's patio. Oh, it hadn't been her intention to see him. Well, somewhere in the back of her mind she had, maybe, possibly dreamed of meeting her head-Severus, which was, in no way, shape or form the Snape that resided in that house, but in her mind, she had worn different clothing to that occasion would have looked less like a Catholic school girl and more like a well, woman. And now she was to meet the real Snape? That couldn't be good. And with things banging loudly against a wall? That couldn't be good either.

And yes, she did feel kind of stupid for asking and he knew that from the way he was looking at her.

"See that you fix this thing. You're a Muggleborn, you ought to know. And if that thing isn't fixed and if he keeps on making noises during the night and keeps me and Mrs Callaghan from sleeping, I'll make you personally responsible," he hissed as he pushed open the back door.

"What thing?" she whispered back.

"A laptop-computer-thing," he glared at her. "It won't keep me from sleeping the night through."

He slowed his steps and Hermione, well, she wanted to remain behind him. Severus Snape using a laptop? That thought made her brow wrinkle. She remembered computers, her parents had had one in their dental practice but she hadn't really used it. And she had spent the past years almost exclusively in the Wizarding World. How was she supposed...just because she was Muggleborn...what a ridiculous argument.

"Draco," she hissed as she felt him, with his fingertips only, pushing her in front of him.

"Fix it," he hissed back and she found herself shoved forward. Shoved so hard that she tripped over her feet and needed everything not to fall flat on her face. She needed a moment to catch her footing. A long moment – and when she looked up, the first thing she saw was the angry, enraged, furious face of Severus Snape.

.


	32. Grammar

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

**A reminder: We are currently in January 1999.  
**

_._

_The grammar of a language can be viewed as a theory of structure of this language. Any scientific theory is based on a certain finite set of observations and, by establishing general laws stated in terms of certain hypothetical constructs, it attempts to accounts for these observations, to show how they are interrelated, and to predict an indefinite number of new phenomena. A mathematical theory has the additional property that predictions follow rigorously from the body of theory. Similarly, a grammar is based on a finite number of observed sentences (the linguist's corpus) and it 'projects' this set to an infinite set of grammatical sentences by establishing general 'laws' (grammatical rules) framed in terms of such hypothetical constructs as the particular phonemes, words, phrases, and so on, of the language under analysis. A properly formulated grammar should determine unambiguously the set of grammatical sentences. _

(Chomsky, 1956)

.

Hermione stared up into his dark, broody eyes. Those, by the way, were the same eyes that her head-Severus had. And to be honest, well, as she pulled her eyes away from his, she noticed that he was, sort of, wearing the same clothes that her head-Severus wore. Usually. Blue jeans and a black soft knitted jumper with a v-neck. There was a bit of – t-shirt? - visible underneath. It was white. He was thin, that much she could see through the clothes but – oh – he did look like her head-Severus. Well, almost. Apart from the thunderous expression on his face. His hair was, well, he should maybe go to get it cut, but just a little. It had to be long enough to...oh. She had to stop. This was Snape. The real Snape. Not the Severus she had imagined in her head. This was the man who had been unbelievably rude to her, well...who hadn't been the nicest teacher at school. This was the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. No matter what else, he was not – NOT – her head-Severus. Her head-Severus would have by now mocked her gently about her Catholic school girl outfit and would have then proceeded to take her into his arms and, well, kiss her. Kissed her so she had a reason to actually pull on his hair.

No, not her head-Severus.

"What. Are. You. Doing. In. My. House?" he asked, his voice as velvety and wonderful as her head-Severus. I little more clipped, maybe, and maybe, well, he...Snape. Snape. This was Snape. He had no wonderful velvety voice, he spoke as he always had in school, when he had berated her.

Teeth. Yes, _No difference_. She had to think about that. Not about her nightly day-dreams. Teeth. _No difference_. Had to remember that. Nothing more, nothing less. Snape. In jeans and a jumper that looked so soft that she was tempted to...bury her face in it. Rub her cheek against his...

Hermione groaned inwardly. This wasn't happening. She wasn't standing before Snape fantasising about head-Severus.

"She's a Muggleborn," she heard Draco faintly, "she'll know about that thing."

And then, Snape stared at her again and...it felt like, well, it felt like he was using Legilimency on her. But she knew he wasn't. He couldn't. It wasn't possible. He couldn't possibly. No magic. Muggle Snape. Not head-Severus.

"Do you know about that thing?" he asked her, silky soft.

She felt very hot in her coat and the heat was rising up to her cheeks. What if...no. Snape wasn't head-Severus. She wouldn't just sit down next to him and he'd be besotted with her, even if she could fix that laptop. Which she doubted. Had no idea about laptops. And what else did she know about computers? The needed electricity to run, they...well, the one in her parents' dental practice had only run. She had heard about problems but only ever from far away. She had lived as a witch since she had been eleven. Yes, she had, part-time, lived as a Muggle in her parents' house but they didn't have a computer at home. If they had asked her to find channels on the television, she would have probably been able to help but this...well. She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

And with that – if she could fix this laptop, if she could help Snape somehow, show Draco that she was more than just a Muggleborn – she could make sure to be invited again. And that...maybe Snape was head-Severus. Or at least she could be...well, close to the real one to adjust the one in her head accordingly. Nuances, voice, the way he held his head, his posture, movements of his hands, his fingers...all the details she needed to fill out in her head. If she failed, nothing would change. She just had to take the plunge.

So, Hermione smiled brightly (albeit a bit forcedly) and nodded. "I can try," she said cheerily. Cheer that she didn't feel at all. She wasn't sure what she felt. Oh, this was ridiculous.

'Focus, Hermione,' she told herself firmly.

"What's the problem?" she asked and with confidence she didn't feel, pulled off her coat and handed it to a stunning and silent Draco. She quickly checked herself over. No, all the buttons were done, her skirt fell to her knees.

Snape (Snape, not head-Severus) eyed her suspiciously. She was sure that he didn't really trust her. That he didn't want her there. It showed. His posture for now was – forbidden. She didn't back off. She held her ground, even though his eyes bored into hers. Lovely eyes. Nice eyebrows, too. Not too bushy. She didn't like too bushy eyebrows. And she didn't like too artificially nice ones. She...no. Those were perfect eyebrows.

'Shit, Hermione,' she told herself inside again. 'This is not Severus. That's Snape! Snape! Teeth. No difference.'

Right, yes, no difference.

"It," he began...

"It's not working the way it should," Malfoy helped and Snape swung around and glared at him. She just stood there, figuring out what she had stumbled into. And how this day had...turned so weird. So odd. She wanted to go home to her books. She wanted to read, she wanted to revise, she wanted to – not be there. And at the same time, she wanted to be there. She could, she thought, smell a bit of manly, male scent waving over her. Not stinky male scent, but male shower gel or aftershave or shampoo. It was faint but...oh if that was Snape, it definitely brought him closer to her head-Severus.

"The screen went black suddenly," he said, and sounded a little choked. Sounded as if he didn't want to say it. As if he wanted to deal with it on his own. She could understand that, definitely. She liked solving her own problems and didn't want another person just butting in. But this was the only way, at least, to be close to him for a while. And she would try – try hard – to be as little know-it-ally as she could.

She smiled and it was a bit weak, she knew but she nodded. With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked towards the laptop. It was an ugly thing, really. Black and thick and the screen was open and the letters on the keyboard close together. Snape with his big hands would get cramp writing on it. No, not thinking about his hands. No.

"Erm, the, er, battery?"

"Battery?" Draco asked before Snape could say a word.

"I think it has a battery. Did that run low?"

"What. Do. You. Take. Me. For?" he snapped. "Of course it ran low, so I plugged the cord in to have it recharged and since the manual said to take the battery out if you're using the laptop with the cord only..."

Hermione swallowed. She stood on the other side of the table and he couldn't possibly get too near to her. Yes, the cord was plugged in. In the socket. Not in the laptop.

"Erm, this?" she asked, holding up the disconnected cord.

Snape kept his face in a neutral mask. He didn't show anger. He was probably over anger now. He was probably seething inside and he would throw her out for sure.

"Oh, you must have pulled it out when you were..." said Malfoy and for a moment, the neutral mask on Snape's face slipped and showed a grimace of anger. Deep anger. Horrible anger. If she had been a lesser person, she would have ducked. Well, but then again it was kind of embarrassing to find out that you had taken the battery out of the laptop (why did he do that? Save battery? Make it last longer?) and the power cord had, well, been disconnected. She put it back in and the laptop made a weird noise. She tried to ignore the threatening "Draco," Snape hissed and bustled around a bit on the other side of the table. A strange looking little box stood there, various cords sticking out of it and connecting it to the laptop and the box where usually the phone was connected.

Oh, she was definitely out of her depths. 'Pretend. It can't be that hard. You installed that VCR,' she told herself sternly and while both Draco and Snape seemed to be completely caught up in a glaring contest, she grabbed the manual of the little box. Modem, it said.

She remembered having read about one of those. Things that connected you to the internet. Hence the phone line. They were still glaring at one another and so she thumbed through the manual. Maybe, she thought, she would get lucky and it was just another cord that didn't sit correctly.

She checked every single one according to the manual and found they were all rightly put in.

"Do you think I'm unable to read a manual?" she heard the voice – that voice – next to her ear and the scent was so strong in her nose.

"I was just checking," she almost stuttered, sounding rather defensive. "And you never said you had problems with the modem."

"It won't connect me to the internet," he growled. "I am very well able to read a manual and plug cords in."

Hermione bit back her comment. Obviously, well, he had pulled one out. Had made the laptop just crash. Oh but he was still rather close. Not touching and not so close that she could feel him per se, but she could smell him. Very much so. Oh, that smelled divine. Really. All...oh, back to that task.

"Did you look for the troubleshooting?" she asked in a little voice.

Instead of berating her, instead of throwing her out, which she had half expected, he only looked at her, then shook his head briefly.

She smiled back, was all she could and opened the manual on the troubleshooting page.

"Erm...you installed it?"

He rolled his eyes and snatched the manual out of her hands and managed to do so without touching her and pulled the laptop to him, and sat down on a chair, leaving her there, half-crouching, half-kneeling. He didn't look at her, but instead he handled the laptop with a sort of forced ease already, the manual next to him, propped up against a cup of tea she hadn't noticed before. He used his finger on the lines of the manual then clicked a few times.

He said absolutely nothing and she was damned to watch him standing behind him, seeing his hair (it wasn't greasy – that was a first, probably), his shoulder, the soft material of his jumper teasing her to touch it. No, she had to back away. This wasn't right. She wasn't that way. She wasn't crushing on teachers. Or former teachers. Who smelled good. Well, Lockhart but she had been, well, a baby then. She wasn't crushing on Snape. She was, yes, daydreaming about a sort of phantasm that could resemble Snape if one squinted and looked at it sideways. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn't hurt that he ignored her. That he hadn't even greeted her, that he merely checked – what? The...ISP-Parameters? That he punched a few numbers into his keyboard (yes, punched) and that he, with a without making a noise, rebooted his laptop, then clicked a few more times on something and that suddenly, the modem-thing behind her made whirring, dialling noises, weird noises and with the same silence he had shown before, he stretched. Almost touching her. His head, almost, almost, touching her belly.

Hermione jumped to the side.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked snarkily, looking at her again.

"Er..." she blushed. "I thought that maybe, you know, needed my help with something? Draco said to make sure it won't keep him and Mrs Callaghan up another night. Oh, she's in pain, by the way. I'm not sure if you know but her back...and her left leg. She pulls..."

"Miss Granger, do I have to ask you to leave one more time?" he glared.

"You haven't..."

"What are you still doing here is an implied order to leave. One would think you'd understand your mother tongue."

"I do understand my mother tongue," she answered. Oh, this indeed would destroy her head-Severus-image. This man, sitting there, he was mean and he was arrogant and he was bullying, and he smelled so lovely and his eyebrows were perfect and his fingers resting on the keyboard as if he was protecting it and splayed possessively over it and if they were on her stomach...no. Snarky. Sarcastic to a degree which bordered on emotional cruelty. "Good day to you, sir," she said simply, swallowing all the replies she wanted to give him about not wanting to be there, about being shoved by Draco, about wanting to help.

He, once more, only rolled his eyes while at the same time arching his eyebrows and she fled. Had barely time to grasp her coat which hung over another chair and apparated a soon as she slightly behind his house, hidden by the rest of the world.

Maybe, she thought, she had needed that. Sarcastic Snape was just as mean-spirited as he had ever been. No difference. No difference. I see no difference. She could get rid of that head-Severus now. She hoped.

.

Severus leant back in his chair, sighing happily. Some numbers, ISP-Parameters had been wrong. He had corrected them and now he was, officially, on the internet. What he could do with it, he didn't know. But he had done it. And almost alone.

With another satisfied sigh, he shut the laptop down, when Granger's words came back to him. He had interrupted her and hadn't really listened but...hadn't she said something about Eleanor? 'Draco said to make sure it won't keep him and Mrs Callaghan up another night. Oh, she's in pain, by the way. I'm not sure if you know but her back...and her left leg. She pulls...' That's what she had said.

He shoved the laptop away from him, making sure he had not disconnected that bloody power cord again and growled low in his throat. He had been so preoccupied with the thing, as fascinating as it was, that he had forgotten about Eleanor. Had he been so loud again to keep her up?

Shaking his head, he got up and knew he needed to make sure Eleanor was fine. And to tell Draco never to bring that Granger into his house again.

.


	33. Semiotics

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_I propose to define as a sign _everything_ that, on the grounds of a previously established social convention, can be taken as _something standing for something else. _In other terms I would like to accept the definition proposed by Morris (1938) according to which 'something is a sign only because it is interpreted as a sign of something by some interpreter … Semiotics, then, is not concerned with the study of a particular kind of objects, but with ordinary objects insofar (and only insofar) as they participate in semiosis'. I suppose it is in this sense that one must take Peirce's definition of the 'standing-for' power of the sign 'in some respect or capacity'. The only modification that I would introduce into Morris's definition is that the interpretation by an interpreter, which would seem to characterize a sign, must be understood as the_ possible _interpretation by a_ possible _interpreter. […] It suffices t say that the human addressee is the methodological (and not the empirical) guarantee of the existence of a signification, that is of a sign-function established by a code. But on the other hand the supposed presence of a human sender is not the guarantee of the sign-nature of a supposed sign. Only under this condition is it possible to understand symptom and indices as signs. _

(Eco, 1976)

.

**January 30th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: James Granger**

**Subject: Hello!**

Dear Mum and Dad,

I bought myself a laptop as well since you told me about your email address in your last letter and I thought this would be quicker. It has been a bit of a hassle to have someone come in an install a phone line in Grimmauld Place where I seem to reside permanently with Harry now, but now all of that is fixed and I'm slowly learning how to use this computer. But maybe, we can use this to communicate quicker and cheaper. I bought a book about it as well :)

Love,

Hermione

.

**February 3rd, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: Essay**

Dr Deveney,

find attached my essay on associative meaning.

S. Snape

.

**February 4th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: James Granger**

**Subject: re: re: re: Hello!**

Dear Mum and Dad,

Harry is absolutely fascinated by the computer. He told me that his cousin used to have one but that they never had the internet on that. And I find myself sitting hours in front of it, perusing all the information that I can find on there. It is like a wonderful, lovely library and I don't have to leave the house! I even found out that I could buy things like books on here and they deliver straight to the door. I'm so glad there are no Muggle-repelling charms on this house anymore! Phew! So, is it very hot in Oz? (I can't believe you're referring to Australia as Oz!). It has been rather cold and windy here but we don't have any rain or snow at least. Will you be coming to visit soon?

Love,

Hermione

.

**February 5th 1999**

**From: Aideen Callaghan**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: Draco told me**

Hey Severus,

Draco told me all about your new found internet-addiction ;) And about your email address so I'm using this way of asking how it's all going. Shame our campuses are not closer together or we could get together once in a while. Is gran okay? I heard you took her to the doctor, or made her go to the doctor or anything because of her back. Is that alright? Will you tell her that I'll come visit next weekend? Thanks :)

Aideen xx

.

**February 6th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Aideen Callaghan**

**Subject: re: Draco told me**

Aideen,

your grandmother is well. The doctor gave her painkillers and a few shots in the back since it was apparently her sciatic nerve. He however said that she should get a new mattress and we bought one straight after.

S. Snape.

PS: What are the two xx about?

.

**February 6th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Aideen Callaghan**

**Subject: He's in the shower**

Aideen,

Severus is in the shower and he left his computer running. I sneaked on it and will now try to write my first ever email. Did it work? Don't answer or he might get it. Will I see you on the weekend? Do you think we could get out for a meal?

Draco xx

.

**February 6th, 1999**

**From: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: re: Essay**

Severus,

please find the corrected version of your essay attached. I was rather surprised by how well it was researched, especially for a supposed first essay. Have you done any linguistics before?

Annie Deveney

.

**February 6th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: re: re: Essay**

No.

.

**February 9th, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Felix Smith, PhD**

**Subject: Essay**

Dr Smith,

find attached my essay on NPs.

S. Snape

.

**February 13th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: James Granger**

**Subject: re: re: re:re: re: Hello!**

Dear Mum and Dad,

I have been talking to a department of the Ministry (even though I was loath to go) about taking my A-Levels at the same time as my NEWTs, or maybe having my NEWTs seen as A-Levels, since I'm not sure I want to continue my education in the Wizarding World. I haven't yet decided for sure yet what I want to do but I've read a pamphlet about doing Maths at Uni and the chances of employment after this and I'm actually considering it. It's just an idea. :/

Love,

Hermione

.

**February 14th, 1999**

**From: James Granger**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: University?**

My dearest Hermione,

your mother has not yet read your email but she would be proud. Mathematics are a noble subject and there are plenty of open spots of mathematicians down here as well. I'm not saying stay away from the Wizarding World but I'm sure there will be opportunities within it with maths, aren't there? Let us know what you decided and when you can come visit.

Love,

your Dad.

.

**February 15rd, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: Essay**

Dr Deveney,

find attached my essay on conceptual meaning.

S. Snape

.

**February 15rd, 1999**

**From. Annie Deveney, PhD**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: Essay**

Severus,

I told you in class before that you do not have to call me Dr Deveney. This is for the disrespectful youth and since I've got to know you as rather different from those and rather more devoted and intelligent, I think it's only fair for you to call me by my given name as I call you by your given name. Attached your corrected essay. It's a pleasure to grade your work.

Annie

.

**February 18th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: Look what Aideen did**

Dear Uncle Severus,

when I saw Aideen today, she decided that I needed an email address and a computer when I have earned enough money from telling men they look good in clothes that don't suit them at all at Selfridge's. ;) Aideen says ;) means wink. Oh, and I need to give Eleanor some money. Remind me of that later, please. I got a bonus already. :D (that means a grin, Aideen says). I'll come by later. :D

Bye,

Draco xx

.

**February 19th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: :( (that's a sad face)**

Why didn't you answer me yesterday? I had no new message in my inbox, apart from the one from Aideen and this is fascinating! I stepped by her place shortly after work today and we will go out to eat now. But maybe I'll see you later. :(

Draco xx

.

**February 20th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: :( (that's a sad face, again)**

Uncle Severus,

again no answer? I don't know anyone I can email apart from you and Aideen and I want to get one as well! :'( (that's crying, Aideen says).

xx

.

**February 20th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Draco Malfoy**

**Subject: stop it**

Do you think I have nothing better to do than to write to you when I will see you regular as clockwork anyway? Stop pestering me, I have other things to do. And use words, not symbols that make absolutely no sense.

.

**February 20th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Drew Fletcher, .**

**Subject: Essay**

Professor Fletcher,

please find attached my essay on implicatures.

S. Snape

.

**February 21st, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: none**

No need to be mean. I'm fascinated. My father's back home, I heard.

.

**March 1st, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: James Granger**

**Subject: Admission to University**

Dear Mum and Dad,

I received my admission to Uni in York for Maths. Somehow, the Ministry of Magic twisted my projected NEWTs into projected A-Levels and I wrote to the Uni in York and they let me in come autumn. I haven't yet decided but I could stay with Harry and apparate there. Or move to York. I don't know yet...

Love,

Hermione

.

**March 3rd, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: Draco Malfoy**

**Subject: your father**

Draco,

thanks for meeting up with me again. I can't believe you're saving for your own computer! No offence. Anyway, I'm glad your father is back home but why haven't you met him yet? Well, it's probably not my business. Back to the point, I've tried talking to Healer Thicskin and he wouldn't give me any information. Harry tried talking to the Minister again but he won't say anything either. I'm afraid if you want to know what happened to your father, you'll have to talk to him directly. Sorry! Oh, your godfather is going to University, right? I'm thinking of going to Muggle University and I'd sort of like to know what it's like...would he talk to me?

Hermione xx

.

**March 4th, 1999**

**From Draco Malfoy**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: University**

Granger,

I can ask him but I doubt he would want to talk to you, to be honest. You can however email my girlfriend Aideen, she'd know all about it. Actually, my godfather is swamped with work and everything...:) But Aideen won't mind you emailing her but she doesn't know about witches and wizards, so you have to be careful and don't run away with your Gryffindor mouth.

Malfoy

PS: How did you apply to University? With NEWTs?

.

**March 15th, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: Essay**

Dr Deveney,

find attached my essay on semantic roles.

S. Snape

.

**March 15th, 1999**

**From: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: re: Essay**

Severus,

please find the corrected version of your essay attached. I'm glad that your participation in class has approved since the beginning of term. I think you have a talent for Linguistics, I have spoken to my colleagues whose classes you're taking as well, Prof. Fletcher and Dr. Smith, and the three of us agree that it would be probably wise for you to take more classes next term if that's possible for you and further your understanding of linguistics. In the future, there might be a tutorial position open for you if you continue your work like that. Would you like to discuss this over coffee some time?

Annie Deveney

.

**March 19th, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: re: re: Essay**

Dr Deveney,

I will have to think about taking more courses during next term and I will talk to Prof. Fletcher and Dr. Smith about it. Thank you.

S. Snape.

.

**March 30th, 1999**

**From: Aideen Callaghan**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: Uni**

Hermione,

Draco told me to email you since you didn't get in touch with me before and he said you have questions about Uni? I think it's a nuisance to type all that, so do you want to meet? :)

.

**April 3rd, 1999**

**From: Aideen Callaghan**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: question**

Severus,

I met with Hermione Granger yesterday. I know I'm annoying and just as nosy as gran but why was she gushing over the fact what a brilliant teacher you were?

Aideen. xx

.

**April 6th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Aideen Callaghan**

**Subject: re: question**

I have no idea what you do meeting Miss Granger and I have no idea either why she would think that I was a brilliant teacher. Your grandmother expects you for lunch at Sunday and she tells me to tell you that you better keep your hands from Draco or you'll eat in the kitchen.

.

**April 15th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: James Granger**

**Subject: Maths!**

Dear Mum and Dad,

I will start in York in Autumn! I'm not sure if it's the right decision but it seems to suit me. A friend of a friend of mine took me to attend a class with her and even though she's studying medicine, it was very, very fascinating! Just to let you know and I will come for a visit after my NEWTs/A-Levels ;) on June 23rd. Can't wait to see you again!

Love,

Hermione xx

.

**April 25th, 1999**

**From. Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject: Essay**

Dr Deveney,

find attached my essay on prototypes. I also plan to write my term-paper about that subject.

S. Snape

.

**April 26th, 1999**

**From: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: re: Essay**

Severus,

Why still so formal? Your essay, as always, was excellent. Please consider going for a cup of coffee with me.

Annie Deveney

.

**May 7th, 1999**

**From: Aideen Callaghan**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: Meet?**

Hermione,

could we possibly meet again some time this week? Draco is a little strange lately and I know that you've known each other for a long time. I just...:/

Aideen xx

.

**May 8th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: Aideen Callaghan**

**Subject: Meet!**

Let's meet, Aideen :) But I must warn you, if Draco is strange, it's possibly about his father...and you know that they're relationship is not the best, I think.

How does Wednesday sound to you? 4?

Hermione xx

.

**May 12th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: none**

Why did you meet with Aideen? What did you tell her?

.

**May 13th, 1999**

**From: Hermione Granger**

**To: Draco Malfoy**

**Subject: re:**

I told her nothing. But she was worried about you. Was there news on your father?

.

**May 14th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: none**

Do you think I'd tell you now?

.

**May 20th, 1999**

**From: Draco Malfoy**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: none**

My father was hit with several spells that used to be considered Dark before you-know-who came on the scene, including a modified memory spell that failed since my father, who knew, is an Occlumens. Tell the Minister and all his bloody Gryffindors that they can all shove their wands somewhere where I don't want to know and I don't want anything to do with them anymore.

.

**June 18th, 1999**

**From: Severus Snape**

**To: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**Subject:**

I'll be free for coffee next week on Thursday after my pragmatics exam.

.

**June 18th, 1999**

**From: Annie Deveney, PhD**

**To: Severus Snape**

**Subject: re:**

I'll meet you in front of the building at 2 then. Looking forward to it!

Annie

.

**June 22nd, 1999**

**From: Aideen Callaghan**

**To: Hermione Granger**

**Subject: Good luck!**

Good luck on your finals and have fun in Australia if I don't hear from you before!

Aideen xx

.


	34. Unaccusative Verbs

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The Unaccusative Hypothesis […] is a syntactic hypothesis that claims that there are two classes of intransitive verbs, the unaccusative verbs and the unergative verbs, each associated with a different underlying syntactic configuration. For example, from a GB perspective – the approach we use in this book – an unergative verb takes a D-Structure subject and no object, whereas an unaccusative verb takes a D-Structure object – be it clausal or a simple NP – and no subject. Thus, the members of the two classes are associated with the following D-Structure syntactic configurations: _

_a. Unergative verb: NP [vp V]_

_b. Unaccusative verb: _ [vp V NP/CP]_

_Alternately, in argument structure terms, an unergative verb has an external argument but no direct internal argument, whereas an unaccusative verb has a direct internal argument but no external argument. _

_(Levin and Hovav, 1993)_

.

Harry smiled uncertainly. For the past few weeks, while Hermione had completely turned to her computer and to emails, he had written owls. Back and forth. The mystery of the person who had placed the curses on Malfoy, and probably Jones was still out there. It wasn't a mystery what had happened to Malfoy at the Ministry. They had, according to Arthur Weasley, with whom he was exchanging a lively correspondence, put him into a trance-like state which was basically a variation of the Imperius Curse, made stronger by the Imperius that had still be on him. And that was only made stronger. Everything had been multiplied. And that had caused severe, but temporary damage in his brain. The Obliviate they had wanted to put on him, to remove the traces of the trance-like-curse, and him resisting it with Occlumency, had done the rest. The man had been weak, the man had to learn to walk, talk, eat anew. One of the healers had explained it to Arthur – it was basically like a Muggle stroke what he had had. And nobody so far had been held responsible.

And that was exactly why Harry had left the Ministry and Auror-Training. He couldn't be part of this. And so, after a week of thinking and without consulting Hermione, he had signed on with the Montrose Magpies. Was playing Quidditch for a living. And that was much more fun than slaving away over old files at Auror-Training. Oh, he was very well aware that he wouldn't be able to play Quidditch for the rest of his life but at the moment, with all of that going on, he had enough of the bureaucratic part of the Wizarding World.

And it had been Quidditch that had made Arthur Weasley write an owl back then. His first game, catching the snitch after only about nineteen minutes. Had earned him a congratulations from the man. And he had, hesitant at first, replied. Thanked him. And ever since then, the two of them had corresponded. It was time, Harry had decided, to get back in touch with at least some of the Weasleys and Hermione hadn't disagreed, even though she was almost done with her NEWTs, almost on her way to Australia to visit her parents. Two more days and she would be on her way. She said he should come with her – but he had the feeling that he would be only in their way. They had, well, grown closer together through all those emails and Harry was glad – but sad that she went.

Maybe that was why, he pondered as he waited, smiling uncertainly, he had agreed to meet Arthur Weasley. Half of the summer spent alone – without Quidditch since they were on a summer break – or meeting once more with the Weasleys, trying to become friends with them again, trying to make them forget that he had broken Ginny's heart. But he had to stay away. After Molly's minor tantrum, and after all that – he had to just stay away for a while. Even though, well, even though he missed all of them. He missed the noise of the Burrow, he missed playing Quidditch with all of them, he missed talking to Ron. And while he knew he hadn't done anything to Ron, he had just, well, stayed away.

But now it was more than half a year, it was time to get reacquainted. Or try to get reacquainted at least. Didn't want to be alone in that big house of his. Maybe Ron would stay with him. And maybe, he had the chance to say that he was sorry to Ginny. He was. Not about the loss of this particular relationship, but about the loss of the relationship to the entire family.

And so, he smiled nervously as he waited in front of Arthur Weasley's office. Harry knew it would just be him. And he knew that maybe, they would go to see Kingsley. But Harry knew he had no business there anymore. Arthur, well...maybe they would just run into him accidentally.

He twisted his fingers together as soon as the door open and relaxed them – instantly – when he looked into the smiling, grinning face of the man he would have loved to have as his father-in-law.

.

"Hermione!" Aideen rushed towards her and embraced her in a quick,one-armed hug. It was astonishing how quickly she had warmed to the girl and who readily Aideen (who seemed to have a know-it-ally streak as well) had accepted her as a former schoolmate of Draco and how they had grown to be friends. Well, not good friends but for Aideen it seemed normal to hug her and she hugged back, naturally.

NEWTs were over, Harry had not been at home to celebrate with her and with Aideen, it had just been the next best thing, really and a short phone call had been enough, then apparating to Manchester, and there she was. Of course with Aideen she celebrating being done with the A-Levels but that didn't matter to her at the moment. She had done what she had always wanted to achieve. NEWTs taken in Potions, in Transfiguration, in Charms, in Arithmancy, in Herbology, in History of Magic, in Ancient Runes, in Astronomy, and in Defense against the Dark Arts. As many as she could, basically. And she felt she had done rather well. But since the Uni at York wouldn't care...well. It was for herself, she had always known this. She could have had a decent job at the Ministry without any NEWTs. But that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted, for now, to be seen as the person who did well academically, not the war heroine.

Alone the fact that Aideen had no idea who she was, what she had done, was great. That she could just have a cup of tea with her and talk about Uni and about Draco (that was mostly Aideen...that girl was besotted) and about Snape. She was glad that she had, in fact, stopped at least the most of the silly crush. She had just suppressed it in her mind. She didn't pretend anymore, wrapped in her duvet at night, that it was her head-Severus's arms holding her. And she was trying not to think too much about it. It had worked extraordinarily well. No more thought about it. Well, almost.

"Hey," she answered Aideen finally and hugged her back.

"Oh, listen, I have to go to gran's. I promised to go and see her and, well, Draco will drive home on the bus with us, I forgot to mention it on the phone. You don't mind that we'll go there for tea? She's alone today because Severus has his last exam today and so I want to check on her and my term's over as well and before I go to see Mum and Dad over the summer..."

"No problem," Hermione smiled. She hadn't seen Aideen's grandmother since that day that she had _helped_ Snape with his computer. Had seen Draco, but not him, nor her. "I don't mind."

Aideen smiled and squeezed her upper arm. "Great. We'll go down to Selfridge's and pick up Draco and then catch the bus if that's alright:"

"That's alright," Hermione smiled. And it was. It really was.

.

Severus felt like a student again. Well, technically, he was a student again but the way his hair fell over the parchment, the way he scribbled furiously, the way he felt, he had felt all of that before. Decades ago, probably before most of those who sat like him, bent over the paper, been born. It was a rather simple exam, he thought. He had read all of those things that were asked a thousand times. And yet, he kept writing and writing, wringing every last bit of information from his brain. It was systematic, it was clear, it was concise. It was absolutely logical and he liked logical. He truly liked linguistics and – if what Dr Deveney had said and what his other two professors had confirmed was really true, he could speed up his studies, and would soon be teaching again.

Not that he missed teaching. But it would be a good thing to do and it would help his finances.

But he truly didn't understand, and wondered, as he thought about the last question (Discuss the difference between polysemy and the variation of meaning due to metaphorical shift, metonymical shift, and differentiation) what Dr Deveney wanted from him. She had constantly looked at him during the last few classes, had asked him more than once to coffee, had told him, more than once, to call her Annie (which he wouldn't) and it almost seemed like she fancied him.

Fancied him. What a ridiculous thought indeed. She was a good looking woman, even he could see that. Not that she was there at the moment, this was pragmatics after all, not semantics, what she taught. But yes, he had to admit that she looked rather, well, nice. Long brown hair, blue eyes, a little nose, a nice figure. A bit too thin and a bit too tall but, yes, nice looking. And so he would have coffee with her, if only she stopped bothering him. He would show her his best face, his Severus-Snape-dungeons-face and even though she tried to act almost the same way towards some of her students in her class, she just didn't have the stamina to keep it up. She was, he thought, a woman. They were never any good at this. Minerva McGonagall had tried and succeeded most of the time but not always. And Dr Deveney was even worse at it. She just caved when she saw a sad face. Not very conducive to teaching loads of dunderheads.

He looked up briefly to refocus his eyes and saw one of the other girls who had taken the course with him winking at him and smiling at him.

Oh, this was just ridiculous. He would write this exam, would meet Dr Deveney for coffee briefly and then spend his summer writing papers and preparing for the next term. Simple.

And the question (Discuss the difference between polysemy and the variation of meaning due to metaphorical shift, metonymical shift, and differentiation.) not so difficult. He was almost done. And then a meal, maybe, with Eleanor in the evening. That would be nice indeed.

.

"Harry," Arthur said brightly. "Molly says to tell you that we miss you and that all of that is forgotten and that you should come over to the Burrow as soon as possible."

Harry beamed. This was – lovely.

"Now that that's out of the way..." the older man hesitated. "Why don't we, for a second, go into my office again? I have...someone in there and I think you'd be interested."

"Who?" Harry asked but Arthur only shook his head, magically opened his door and let Harry stepped in. At first, he didn't see anything, and then, the back of a blonde head, sitting in a chair. Well, the person was sitting in a chair. And he only knew two people who had such hair. Malfoy.

"Mister Potter," he heard as the chair swivelled and he saw the face of Lucius Malfoy, looking at him.

"Mister Malfoy," he answered, utterly puzzled.

"Lucius," Arthur nodded. "I haven't filled Harry in on anything. This office, at least, is safe."

"Hang on," Harry said, impulsively, wishing, for once, he would have that impulsiveness under control but it never got better, "since when do you two get along? The last time I saw you..."

"Mister Potter, people change. And people get changed, for the lack of a better expression, by circumstances."

"Harry, we all have a common interest. We want to know who is behind what happened."

Harry nodded curiously. "And?"

"It seems that so far, there is nothing. We know nothing and the Minister knows nothing," Arthur replied while Harry tried, as covertly as he could, to look at Malfoy. He looked almost the same as he had done before. The one corner of his mouth though was hanging down slightly. A stroke...yes, it almost looked like a stroke, like the one he remembered one of the neighbours in Privet Drive having.

"What can I do?" Harry asked. "I'm playing Quidditch now, I'm not in the Ministry anymore."

Malfoy arched one of his eyebrows and got up from his chair. "Weasley, Potter," he said slowly. "Good day to you."

Harry watched as the man got up, and apparently nothing was left, no bad feelings between Arthur and Malfoy. Instead, the red-headed man shook the blonde's hand and gave him a smile, promising him to inform him if he knew something. Nothing left of the hatred because of Ginny's almost death and her possession of Voldemort. Nothing. They seemed friendly with one another. And that was rather strange, Harry thought.

"His wife left him," Arthur said a moment after the door closed and they were alone once again. "And he truly wants to know who cursed him. Since the Minister doesn't trust him any further than he can throw him, he turned to me."

"Are you using Legilimency?" asked Harry, stunned.

"No. I'm just reading your face," he laughed.

"His wife left him? Draco's mum left him?"

Arthur nodded. "She...moved, apparently, to Spain. Those curses were probably too much for her."

Harry frowned. This was too much information. Narcissa Malfoy leaving her husband? The perfect marriage so imperfect? Well, Draco had mentioned nothing when he had met him that one time. But he wouldn't.

"Why was he here?" he found himself asking.

"We...have our suspicions, of course, who it might have been. Lucius never saw who did it. But did you see his face? The Ministry has tried very hard to damage him as well. There are a lot of hard feelings left, Harry, don't...

"That's why I left," he said sadly.

"I gathered," Arthur smiled and squeezed his upper arm. "Lucius is...a Slytherin. He doesn't tell you anything unless he gets something in return. And..."

Harry frowned. "Yes?"

"We want to...well, first of all we want to find out who is behind those curses."

"But Malfoy and you..."

Arthur smiled still and nodded. "Yes. I know. But it all has a reason. I will tell you, in due time. And I think we'd very much appreciate your input on who you think could have put the curses on people. We need to think, what's the expression, outside the box."

"But I can't do anything? Why did you ask me here?"

"You can do a lot of things, Harry. First of all, we need to, and I hate to say this, but we need to think Slytherin. And that's what Lucius is for." The Weasley almost smirked evilly, "We have a plan. And we need you for it."

.


	35. The Counterfactual Cue

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Clearly, an ironic interpretation may be appropriate if the speaker's statement deviates from reality. Of course, there are many other possible interpretations for a counterfactual statement (e.g., perhaps the speaker is being deceptive, or mistaken), but the use of counterfactuals is perhaps the most salient cue for ironic content. The listener may employ the following heuristic when the speaker utters a counterfactual statement: _

_(A) The larger the deviation from reality, the greater the certainty of ironic intent. _

_As an example, consider the following utterance: _

(2) "_What lovely weather!"_

_If (2) is uttered on a warm, sunny day, there is no deviation from reality, and the statement may be interpreted literally. If (2) is uttered on an overcast day, the statement becomes a bit more ambiguous. For example, if torrential downpours had occurred every day during the preceding week, then a day without rain might indeed seem 'lovely'. In this case, the use of the heuristic specified in (A) is problematic; there is a deviation between the utterance and reality, but because it is not extreme, an ironic interpretation may not be warranted. Finally, if (2) is screamed at the hearer over the howling wind, as speaker and hearer crouch in a tornado shelter, the use of (A) allows and ironic interpretation to be made with some certainty. _

(Kreuz, 1996)

.

Hermione perched on the seat in the bus. And this was, she realised, one instance where she actually preferred magic to the Muggle way. Dirty buses, dirty seats with stains on them that she couldn't – and didn't want to – identify, a drunk man two rows behind her and in front of her, Draco and Aideen, holding hands. Oh those two. Seriously. Alone the fact that Draco had walked out of Selfidge's with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and then the lighting up of his face upon seeing Aideen – and the ensuing kiss – had astounded Hermione Granger to no end. But honestly, what astounded her even more than the part with Selfridge's or Aideen was the fact that he looked like Draco Malfoy, talked like Draco Malfoy but didn't act like him at all. True, there had been only one kiss and while that had seemed rather stormy and passionate, it had been brief, and he was very discreetly holding her hand. But they were holding hands. In public. And Draco had grinned like a madman when he had seen her (the grinning had stopped though, as soon as he had seen Hermione but that much was to be expected). He asked her questions, talked to her softly ever since they had gotten on the bus.

And this was really a waste of time. This entire bus journey was a waste of time. Apparating was so much more practical, even if it sometimes induced nausea. Sitting there, unable to pull out her wand to even cast a quick Scourgify on the seat. But, yes, she had, briefly, seen Draco's wand sticking out from his back pocket. So he carried it there – and, Hermione almost giggled to herself – if he worked on commission, a wand and a Confundus would come in handy.

"It's the next stop," Aideen suddenly said, turning around to see her.

"Granger, why exactly are you here again?" Malfoy asked, coldly.

"She's done with her A-Levels and she wants to celebrate, Draco," Aideen shook her head and rolled her eyes. "I told you this morning."

"You didn't."

"I wrote you an email," she huffed.

"I didn't get to read any emails all day long. It's not like I can, at work," he argued.

Hermione only smiled a little. She wasn't sure exactly why she had chosen to meet Aideen, other than the fact that she didn't want to be alone, but this was better than to sit at Grimmauld Place, thinking and waiting. Even though, if truth be told, she itched and itched and itched to ask Draco's opinion about some questions. Or better yet, Snape. But then again, Aideen had said he wouldn't be there and it was maybe better this way. Especially since she only wore jeans and a t-shirt. A plain t-shirt. And plain jeans. Nothing special. And the sandals on her feet were nothing special either. But she couldn't explain to Draco that the silence in Grimmauld Place could be oppressing and that she truly had to cut down on the internet because she landed, automatically, on some marvellous site named Amazon which sold books. And books. And they were cheap and the delivered to the doorstep. And while there was nothing compared to perusing tomes in a bookshop, she knew that she could order them, on that marvellous site, without wondering what she looked like or whether she was in her pyjamas or not. And that was the beauty of it. Retail book therapy without having to care what she looked like. Brilliant.

But she had to cut down on that. It cost her a lot of money. And her bookshelves were overpopulated.

"Come on," Aideen said, pulling her up from the seat and she wondered, very briefly, if Draco used the bus usually, or if he apparated. She was glad she could – and she would. Apparition and none-dirty bus seats were magical.

.

Harry blinked confusedly. "What?"

"It is rather simple. We want to catch the, let's say, culprit. And the best way to do it is...what's the Muggle saying? In flagrante."

"Almost, yeah, so far I get it but you want me to do what?"

"Throw a party. It's been over a year since the end of the war..."

"This will never work," Harry argued. "Seriously, I'm hearing Hermione in my head. She'd tell you that it would never work because the person who's done it has never used their own wand, only Bellatrix Lestrange's. And what good would it do for them to show up at Grimmauld Place with, I take it, Malfoy in attendance, and if possible Snape in attendance, which won't happen, and then nothing would happen? Because nothing would happen. They're not completely stupid," he paused, "I truly have Hermione in my head. Must be living with her...seriously, she can be quite nagging and after a time..."

"You weren't together, were you?"

"No," Harry groaned. "But that's beside the point, isn't it?"

"Well, Malfoy's idea was to have the party here anyway," Arthur Weasley argued.

"And why would you need me for that?"

"You have pull with the Minister and you could convince him to allow you to throw one here. It would be, to be honest, also quite political. If you were allowed to have a party, in the Ministry and if you were to invite, for instance, Lucius Malfoy and...let's say Perenias Parkinson, that would be a sign for them. A clear sign. Potter invites former Death Eaters, or suspected Death Eaters..."

"And you would leave Bellatrix Lestrange's wand as it is now?" Harry frowned.

"With the proper precaution, naturally, but yes. We would have spells on it and around it..."

"Why aren't there spells around it now?" asked Harry.

Arthur Weasley sighed. "There are some around it. And so far, we only know that it hasn't been taken again... but maybe that was lack of opportunity."

"Lucky for the rest of us," he rolled his eyes. "It's risky and..."

"It's the only way. The Ministry won't do anything about this and..."

"What's in it for you?" interrupted Harry.

"Nothing," Arthur replied but Harry didn't believe him.

"Why would you work together with Malfoy? And why now? Why not sooner? I mean it wasn't like any of you were attacked. It was _only_ Snape and Malfoy. A few Muggles here and there, nothing life-threatening..."

"Nothing's in it for me, Harry," Weasley said, smiling kindly. "I just want this to end."

"Want what to end? There hasn't been anything since this incident with Malfoy, has there?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then end what?"

"End the threat. End the belief that..." he stopped.

"End what belief?" asked Harry suspiciously.

"This government isn't good enough. It's using the wrong methods and it's overzealous." Arthur Weasley sighed and scratched his head slowly.

"And that's your reason? The government isn't good enough as is overzealous?"

"Yes. A government like this will lead to another hunt on witches and wizards. It's just turned around..."

Harry frowned deeply. "Which means what? And why now? And...you were never ambitious, Arthur. I can't believe that...do you want the position? Do you want to be Minister of Magic?"

"No," he said immediately. "No, I don't want that. But I want a fair and unbiased government. One which doesn't subject my son to Verita..."

"What?" Harry's mouth hung open and he heard the older man sigh softly and put his face into his hands.

"Charlie was...you know how he is when he's had two or three glasses of firewhiskey. He starts talking and there is no barrier between head and mouth and while Kingsley was there, too. Charlie said," Weasley stopped, "that Malfoy deserved to be in Azkaban and that it was a shame that those Death Eaters – confirmed Death Eaters – came off lightly. A day later, Malfoy attacked this old woman...Severus's neighbour? And Charlie was questioned. He denied it, but he had no alibi. Under a false pretence, he was made to drink Veritaserum."

"Like Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked, utterly shocked.

"No, it was a bit...more familiar, you might say. He was invited to talk to the Minister about a position at the Ministry, a proper place to work in the Regulations of Magical Creatures office. You know Charlie, he likes the more hands-on approach and so he refused. But not before having tea with the Minister. The rest was the same as it was with young Malfoy. Kingsley dosed himself, shut his mouth, and let an Auror do the questioning."

"So that is why you're working together with Malfoy?"

Arthur Weasley sighed. "Yes. He wents to see revenge and I..."

"You want to see Kingsley stumble over his own feet? If you catch the...you can say that the Minister is incapable..."

"Yes. Veritaserum is a dangerous thing, Harry. And they are overdoing it."

Harry nodded solemnly. "Okay," he said. "I will try and see if I can get the Minister to have a party here."

"Good."

"But you already have a suspicion who it might be, right?" asked Harry, still frowning.

"Yes," sighed Arthur, "I do."

.

He felt relieved. And at the same time, not. At the same time, he knew he had to write a few papers still, two, to be precise and he knew that he should have never said yes to coffee with that woman. She was strange and looked at him all the time and he disliked it. She encouraged him to participate in her class. Encouraged! Nobody encouraged him to do anything. Nobody. Not even a woman of thirty-five.

And as he walked out of the building, into the windy sunshine, he saw her standing there, chatting to another student, or maybe another lecturer, he never knew for sure. Oh, how he was tempted to just turn around, leave through the back of the building and go home. But he had, sort of, promised he would go. Have coffee (well, he wanted tea) and whatever...he wasn't even sure what she wanted to achieve with this. And since he wasn't sure of that and since that had been a bad idea right from the start, he slowed his steps until he came to a halt and only stood. What a wonderful idea it had been. Having coffee with a lecturer. That would have been like him inviting Potter and Granger and Weasley into his office for pumpkin juice. And he would have never done that. Giving them good advice on their careers?

He had given career-advice once a year because it had to be done, because he had to do it. He had never given any of his students pumpkin juice or hot chocolate or tea or coffee. They were into his office, quick talk about what they wanted to do with their lives (and seriously, in Slytherin there were only a few who really wanted to be something but not knowing what it was exactly and how to achieve it. Most were trained, from infancy, to want this or that and how to best achieve it), out of his office. Nothing more, nothing less. Not going out for coffee with them. That would have been just the best idea to do that. Mollycoddle his students.

"Severus!" oh – it was too late. The woman cried out to him. And waved. And ran then towards him. Just wonderful. Just in case nobody had seen them, she was bouncing now towards him. Well, a blend between running and bouncing. "Oh, I'm so happy you showed up," she said.

"Yes," he drawled. "Obviously. And what a happy occasion."

She sighed almost – dreamily (wonderful) and grasped his right forearm (who dare she touch him?) and pulled him forwards. "There is the most amazing new cafè right down the street," she smiled.

"Wonderful," he snapped.

"Yes, isn't it? And it truly is wonderful. No need to be sarcastic," she smiled. "And other students don't go there."

"Wonderful," he nodded, and, strangely enough, just followed her. Not that he had much chance. She held his right forearm still in a vice like grip.

How wonderful.

.


	36. Presuppositions

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_The projection problems is the problem predicting the presuppositions of complex sentences in a compositional fashion from the presuppositions of their parts. A simple illustration is provided by the following three sentences:_

_(1) The king has a son._

_(2) The king's son is bald._

_(3) If the king has a son, the king's son is bald._

_Restricting our attention to existence presuppositions resulting from definite descriptions, we observe that (3) inherits the presupposition that there is a king, which both of its constituents carry, but doesn't inherit the presupposition that the king has a son, which its right constituent carries._

_(Heim, 1995)_

.

Eleanor hugged her granddaughter and her, well, flatmate, and eyed the young girl who had come in with them curiously. Hermione Granger – Aideen had mentioned her, had said she would bring her with her, and had explained, on the phone, that the girl had no parents (they lived somewhere else) and that she had just completed her A-levels and nobody to celebrate this with. Not that Eleanor had any intention of celebrating with the girl – but nobody should be alone after being done with exams.

Severus had his last exam as well that day, and he would be coming over for dinner. If the girl – Hermione – was still there then, he would have to deal with it. And she would have to deal with it. Eleanor, though, doubted it. The young people would probably want to go somewhere and it would do them good. As long as Draco was back at eleven and without Aideen. Twelve, if he was good.

But she had to admit it to herself, those two behaved better than the usual teenage mannerless heathens she saw on the street. Never acting with decorum and always pawing one another with as little clothing on as possible when it came to girls and as baggy clothing when it came to the boys.

"Mrs Callaghan," the girl, who, upon closer inspection, was almost a young woman, raised her arm and offered her her hand to take. Eleanor, surprised by such good manners this time, shook his steadily.

"Miss Granger, if I remember correctly," she said politely.

"Yes," she nodded and smiled. "Is your back better?"

"My back?" Eleanor frowned. "What do you know about my back? Draco? Aideen?"

"No, it's just...I saw you were in pain when I was last here and I thought..."

"My back is better, thank you," that young woman was rather perceptive. Eleanor was close to being impressed. No quite there yet though.

"Oh Gran, you have the washing outside," Aideen exclaimed. "Draco and I will bring it in."

Honestly, Eleanor sighed to herself, those young people thought she was born yesterday – but yes, she could see that those two were in love and nothing, absolutely nothing indecent could happen between them in the garden. Well, they could kiss and Eleanor believed they would but Severus was still gone, telling her he was staying a bit longer, then going to the library to pick some books for the summer and the house on the other side was empty, so there was nobody to see them if they did kiss. Not that she liked it but there was nothing she could do. Pay attention what they were doing, explain to Aideen that she did not yet want another grandchild and – she grinned inside – Draco had rather paled when she had told him that there was to be good behaviour and that otherwise the old dressmaker shears were still rather sharp and that not only cloth could be cut with them. That had, she thought, brought the message across.

She shot both of them a glance, then smirked at Draco. "Dressmaking, Draco," she said, just loud enough for him to hear and the boy paled slightly again and nodded before he put his hand on Aideen's back and followed her outside.

.

"Sorry, Severus," the woman said suddenly, having sat at a quiet table in the corner and basically pulling him there as well, shoving him onto a chair. She took a deep breath and smiled. "I am not usually that giddy, I just...I thought you wouldn't come."

He said nothing. What could he say? There was nothing to say. So she wasn't the pulling type? She wasn't the squeaky type? No. At the moment, her voice sounded almost pleasantly calm. And she smiled calmly. Not that huge grin she had worn before.

"Really, sorry. I just...I mean you were always so stiff in the emails and I thought, even after you said yes, that you had maybe changed your mind. Nevermind, I'm talking too much again already," her smile almost widened to the grin again. "How did the exam go?"

Severus cleared his throat. This was too too confusing. She seemed honestly interested. Seriously interested in what he had done. Eleanor listened to him, yes, she asked him about University, about his courses, Aideen asked if he got along, Draco from time to time, but that was different.

"It went well, I think," he said slowly.

She chuckled gently, her voice low and her fingers splayed on the top of the table. "I never expected anything. You're...something of a shall we say, mystery, to all of us."

His eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

Dr Deveney cleared her throat, then the waitress interrupted them.

"Cappuccino for me," she said, "Severus?"

"Tea," he answered, and stared at his lecturer, willing her to answer. A mystery? Him? Of course he was a bloody mystery. If he hadn't been a mystery, he couldn't have done his job. If he hadn't been a mystery, he wouldn't be alive. Not that that had much to do with him being a mystery but rather with him being prepared for everything. But now? He was only one of those mature students, doing his best in the courses he took. And enjoying, to a certain extent, what he was doing. There was no mystery about it.

"You were saying?" he said, almost annoyed after a minute of silence.

"Ah, the mystery, yes. You are obviously rather more experienced than the usual students..."

"I should think that is obvious," he interrupted.

"No," she chuckled, "I meant most mature students we get...they all want to study very much but if you read their essays, you notice, most of the time, that they've left school a long time ago. Your essays are always perfectly structured. You have a choice of words that is uncommon and those essays are always well researched and there is material in there which we haven't covered. I know you did probably a lot of background reading, a lot of my mature students do...but how shall I put this? It's...do you come from an academic background?"

He swallowed. He hadn't wanted to be so obvious. He had kept his words simple in the essays. He hadn't...were standards so low? Academic background? No, he had only graded imbeciles' essays for longer than he cared to remember. And for that, he had to know how to structure it, what kind of literature to include. But academic background? No. His father had been working at the mill. Certainly no academic background. And his mother...she hadn't done much after Hogwarts, had she? He didn't even know for sure what his mother had done before she had become his mother. Academic background? Certainly not.

"No," he said, shaking his head for good measure.

"And Felix tells me..." she stopped herself when the waitress came and put their drinks in front of them. "What classes are you taking next term?"

Severus had to keep himself from frowning. What was she after? Academic background? What classes next? How the exam had gone? What did she care? And what had Dr Smith told her?

"A further syntax class, morphology and phonology."

"What about speeding it up a little? Take another one of mine, I'm having a Chomsky class, I think you'd enjoy that," she smiled. "And it seems it's a good thing to have you in the room, actually," she chuckled and her eyes took on a certain form of mischief.

"What do you mean?"

"Felix and I agree...there is...another part of the mystery, I suppose, something about you that commands the attention of everyone. Haven't you noticed? Everyone is silent when you speak or look around. You have a sort of...presence which compels the entire class to be silent. Not only mine but Felix's as well, he said. Quite frankly, I enjoy that silence. Haven't had such a well-behaved class in years. Usually, I don't mind, they can do what they want but I had less problems with my throat that term. Thanks to you, I think."

He frowned for real this time.

"Don't look like that, Severus, it's true. Most of the girls seem to like your voice and you glared at poor Deepak Chaudhry during our second session when he talked with his neighbour in a way that made him shut up. He hasn't forgotten and I suppose the rest of them hasn't forgotten either."

He couldn't remember to have glared. Or to have scowled. Or to have even looked at someone. Or remember someone called Deepak Chaudhry. He gulped down his tea, suddenly, not liking where this entire meeting had gone. He was confused and he felt like only half of the air he needed reached his lungs. It had been a bad idea to meet this person. To hear he was a mystery and something of a conversation topic of professors. He wanted to be inconspicuous. He didn't want to be noticed.

He put a few coins on the table and looked at Dr Deveney. "I have to go," he said.

"Did I say something wrong?" asked the woman immediately, worry etched in her features.

"No," he shook his head. "I just need to leave. I forgot I had to go...somewhere."

"Er," she looked up at him, then got up. "Dinner? Some time?"

He shook his head. "I really have to go."

"I will email you...erm, your paper, I suppose," she said, her face falling, and she looked – utterly disappointed. Why would she look disappointed? That couldn't be. Must be the light anyway.

"Thank you," he said and turned to leave. "Good bye."

.

The old woman looked at her sternly. "What do you mean?"

"I don't cook," Hermione smiled weakly. "I never had to."

"But you're a woman. You can cook, can't you?" Mrs Callaghan asked firmly.

"I suppose...I was rather good at...erm, Chemistry. At school," she smiled.

The old woman arched her eyebrows and a smirk was beginning to form itself at the corner of her lips. "Chemistry?" she asked, slightly mockingly.

"Yes," Hermione answered, surely. That woman couldn't know about magic. Could she? There was a twinkle in her eye and she did live with Draco. Snape was her neighbour.

"Potions?" the woman whispered, grinning.

"Erm," Hermione blushed. "Do you..."

Mrs Callaghan sighed. "I do of course. Aideen doesn't and it might be better that way but I do. Chemistry. Seriously. Couldn't think of anything better?"

"Well, it is similar," she answered almost hotly. "You have those ingredients that interact with one another and they make something entirely new. The magic is in the way the ingredients act and react to other ingredients or even the material of the cauldron and the stirrer..."

"And you need to be magical to brew them," chuckled Mrs Callaghan, "I know. And this is what puzzles me, you know. Severus couldn't cook as well...and they way you both described it...it sounds almost like cooking to me."

"Oh," Hermione muttered. "Not quite. There is, I mean it should be similar, yes, but you see with potions, it doesn't matter what it tastes like and you can, as far as I recall from my mother, have all the ingredients right for a meal and then it still tastes like nothing and I just never thought about it, I mean, I did but then I tried cooking while we were in the...well, camping and it was all bland and burned and didn't taste good. But if I had maybe made soup, like a potion, in a cauldron and maybe with herbs and stuff, it would have maybe been better. But the boys wouldn't have liked soup, I don't think. And if I had thought about it and how to...I mean it can't be too difficult to use a cookbook, right? It's like a potions text and if I keep to the instructions, I should be able to..."

Mrs Callaghan raised her finger. "Stop making excuses. You're obviously a girl whose mouth runs away with her from time to time. Just say that you cannot cook and that's fine. If you want to learn, I have spuds to peel. We'll make stew and dumplings and you will see how simple it is," she smiled warmly and Hermione's face brightened.

"I will help," she said eagerly and sat up straighter in the chair, catching, from the corner of her eyes, only a glimpse of Draco and Aideen kissing and hugging and it made her smile more, somehow. Bizarre, all that. Pureblood kissing Muggle and Hermione Granger, always thinking she, as a modern thinking woman, didn't have to know how to cook, peeling potatoes with a smiling, humming, lovely older lady. The only thing that was missing now to add to the utter bizarreness was – well – Snape walking in and helping. But that seemed even more bizarre than a Malfoy kissing a Muggle.

She smiled at Mrs Callaghan and with great enthusiasm, began to peel potatoes.

.


	37. Sarcasm

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_Whatever our social or psychological purposes in being sarcastic, from the purely linguistics or grammatical point of view, we are doing two things at once: we are communicating an ostensible message to our listeners but at the same time we are framing this message with a commentary or metamessage that says something like 'I don't mean this: in fact, I mean the exact opposite.' This metamessage makes sarcasm seem like a very abstract and quintessentially 'linguistic' activity, for when we engage in it, we are using language to talk not about the world but about itself. Moreover, as there are many other devices available for performing the act of denial or committing verbal aggression, it seems like a needlessly roundabout way of performing this task. _

_Accordingly, we should not be surprised to find that sarcasm correlates with some other kinds of 'sophistication' or to find that it is far from universal even among human beings. If language is what defines humanity, then irony and sarcasm may conceivably define a 'higher' or 'more decadent' type of culture or personality._

(Haiman, 1998)

.

Severus settled slowly into the armchair his godson had given him for Christmas. It was comfortable. He had built a fire, stared into it. Still had some time before he had to make an appearance over at Eleanor's. She had made him promise to come. Well, that promise had included a promise of hers to make stew and dumplings. And stew and dumplings was something he could only barely resist. Besides, it would be nice to actually spend some time with people who had no hidden agenda. The more he thought about it, the more he thought that maybe Dr Deveney had that hidden agenda. He wasn't sure what it was but gathering from her words – maybe – she wanted quietness in her classroom and he was the means to that end.

Again – means to an end. Why...always.

He shook his head to himself. It was no use thinking about it, not about the past and not about that woman. He would, probably, not take her class. Chomsky was interesting though, as far as he had read yet. But he wouldn't be means to an end yet again. He had played that part, been that person too long. Not anymore. He was doing everything now only for himself. He would be getting his degree, maybe talk with some other professors about his options but other than that – no. He wouldn't be the person to keep a class quiet only because he was there. He had done that for too long. Had been that awful teacher for too long. Though...teaching. In retrospect, it hadn't been too bad. It had been more fun and more satisfactory with the older students, NEWTs, sixth years. Those who wanted, or needed, potions. He didn't count that one year he had taught Defence against the Dark Arts. And at university, well, they would be all interested, wouldn't they?More or less at least, as he had found out that term. Not sure if he was qualified for that, or if he ever wanted to do it. The degree, yes, further options would be discussed with other professors, not Dr Deveney.

That woman was strange. Truly, truly strange. And he wanted to stop thinking about it. That minute. Severus leant his head back and stared up at the ceiling. All his papers were done, all his exams written. Nothing to do until September. Maybe, the thought entered his mind quickly, he would have to go and find a job after all. Otherwise, he would be truly lost that summer. True, Eleanor had mentioned wanting to go on a trip with him, but...he couldn't possibly do that. He would sleep in the next morning. And then he would check on his garden, mow his lawn, mow Eleanor's lawn. Other than that, he had no other plans and...

No, he wasn't sure what he felt about that. For the first time in a long, long while, he had absolutely no plan. He had more than a month of having no plan before him. No house to clean – it was spotless, no furniture to buy – he had all he wanted or needed. He didn't know what to do. Other than Eleanor next door, there was nothing in that summer. No duty, nothing to be done. It was – strange. What a strange feeling, really. He could read, he supposed. The local library had a rather large collection of books he had not read yet. And then there was always that trip Eleanor had mentioned. Wanted to go down to London to see her eldest Stephen and he was supposed to go with her. London...London. Stephen. Not sure. She would probably make him, had a way to make him do things he wasn't sure he wanted to do. Learning to cook, going to university, talking to Aideen, giving Draco a Christmas present, putting those shelves up for her. And in the end, none of the things she had made him do in the past had been of any disadvantage for him. Quite on the contrary.

But no, that was another thing he truly didn't want to think about – didn't want to explore why that old woman next door only wanted his best. Didn't want to realise that she might or might not have any motives. And in that moment, he realised that he thought it would be worse for him if she had no motives at all. No motives would mean she was just acting like that because...she wanted to act like that. Because she did care for him for no reason at all. And that made absolutely no sense in his opinion, in his eyes.

Still. It made no sense to think about it, it made absolutely no sense. And if he didn't move soon, she would knock on his door and collect him for that meal. At least he didn't have to be terribly pleasant over there. At least those people let him be quiet when he wanted to be.

.

"Patience, Miss Granger," said Mrs Callaghan, looking over Hermione's shoulder. "And you don't have to stir in a particular pattern. Just make sure it doesn't burn."

"Okay," said Hermione, knowing she was too eager, she was too academic in her pursuit to learn cooking. She was too analytical, and Mrs Callaghan had said so. She had actually laughed at her when Hermione wanted to measure the salt. Wanted to know exactly how much salt went into the pot. She wanted to recreate that meal. Wanted to show Harry that she could cook. Oh, and Molly Weasley would be impressed, probably. Maybe not. She wasn't sure.

"Try it now," Mrs Callaghan pushed a spoon in her hand and Hermione turned her head to see her still standing behind her, smiling. Until, well, she pushed her hair back. Mrs Callaghan pushed her hair aside. Oh, she hadn't put it up. She should have...

"Someone is having a good hair day today," the older woman smirked and Hermione stood there, the spoon in mid-air, hovering over the pot.

"I...erm, sorry, I didn't...I mean, I usually pull it back but this morning...I'm losing hair lately because I'm always wearing a ponytail or have it up and then my hair falls out more and I didn't think I'd be...I mean I had only my Ancient Ru...a translation exam this morning and my hair didn't get in the way, so I..."

"Stop, Miss Granger," Mrs Callaghan's smirk grew. "I was joking."

"My hair...I mean, it's been trouble since forever. I can't..."

"No, she was worse at school," she heard Draco's sneering voice behind her. "Needed to get clearance to walk and the birds had to watch out."

"Draco," she heard Aideen and whipped her head around to look at the two of them just in time to catch her slapping Malfoy's arm. "Be nice. Curly hair is nice and with that steam in here, even my hair would get curly."

"I wish you'd leave your hair curly instead of using that straightening iron all the time," Mrs Callaghan grumbled and pointed at the pot. "Try now what you cooked."

"Granger cooked?" Malfoy asked, smirking at her evilly. She wasn't sure what to make of this. Sure, Mrs Callaghan had made a comment about her hair but yes, she had to agree with that. Her hair was a mess, but then Draco? Who looked so sappily happy with that girl, with his hand sneakily in hers. "I'm sure it will taste wonderfully."

"Try it now, Miss Granger," Mrs Callaghan put her hand on her back and smiled encouragingly. Hermione nodded, glaring at Draco over her shoulder and then turned back to the put, dipping the spoon deep into the stew she had made. Well, she had helped made. It actually tasted – amazing. It was good, it was the way it should be. Without measuring or weighing any of the spices they had put in.

"Well?" Mrs Callaghan asked, her eyebrows arched, her lips in a smile.

"It's...it really tastes wonderfully," she gushed, her eyes growing bigger. She put the spoon into the stew again and tried once more. It was even better then.

"No science needed for that," the older woman said and winked. "Aideen, the table. Draco, you get your godfa..." she was interrupted by the doorbell ringing. "No, Draco, open the door for your godfather. He seems to have developed a feeling of when to show up," she chuckled and Hermione felt cold dread entering her stomach. Yes, she had pushed the head-Severus almost entirely from her head, she thought, but that didn't mean that she actually wanted to see him now. Or worse, eat with him.

"I...erm, I need to go," she said, pushing the spoon back into Mrs Callaghan's hands. "I..."

"Nonsense," she felt the older woman's eyes on her, felt how she watched her curiously. "You helped, you get to eat."

"But I...my flatmate, he..." she shook her head, yes, it was Snape's neighbour but she had helped. She had cut carrots. Peeled onions. Peeled potatoes. She had waited and had listened to Mrs Callaghan telling her about her family and had told her about her NEWTs while they had waited for it to simmer. She had formed dumplings and had put them into the stew. She had watched, she had waited, she was hungry. And it tasted grand! She was proud of herself. Not that she had done anything without supervision or without Mrs Callaghan standing behind her or beside her, but she had helped. She had a reason to be there. She had been invited and if Snape was there, so be it. Her head-Severus was gone. Most of the time. Only when she couldn't sleep and didn't want to think about...no, he was gone most of the time.

And she had helped make the meal. She would eat. She would then leave and she would see Snape. Snape who had been unreasonably unfair to all of them at school, just because they had been Gryffindors and just a bit...well, adventurous. Just because...he didn't like her friend's family. Because he had held a grudge.

"Severus, how did the exam go?" she heard Mrs Callaghan said as she focused on, well, stirring carefully.

"Miss Granger?" she heard him, quietly, an undertone of disapproval on her tone. No, scratch that. Not an undertone. It was all over his voice and she didn't want to turn around. She wanted to look at her beautiful stew (which looked, naturally, a bit messy but such was the nature of stews) and wanted to eat it and then she wanted to leave. Wanted to curl up at home with a book. She had ordered a few from the list she had received from uni at York and she wanted to have an early start. Had the whole summer before her during which she had nothing planned except going to see her parents. Nothing, except preparing for her classes at uni. And what a blissful summer she wished it would be. Without the hassle of the trials of the last summer, the rebuilding of the Wizarding World. Just her and her books and London and Australia for a week and a few shops and nothing else. Maybe, she thought, she would make a few trips to Mrs Callaghan, if she agreed – learn to cook more things. No other things planned and how wonderful that was. Nothing to do but her books and preparing for university.

She pulled herself out of her thoughts and forced her face in a smile, straightened her shoulders and checked that her back was very erect before she turned around. She focused. Not 'Professor Snape'. 'Mister'? That sounded just as stupid and unfamiliar. She was familiar with Professor Snape, not Mister Snape.

"Hello," she said then simply.

"What gives us the pleasure?" he asked sarcastically and turned his glare on her. "I thought I told you to..."

"I invited her. She finished her exams today, just as you and...did you know she can't cook? That can't be. She's about to go off to uni and she can't eat out of cans."

Snape arched his eyebrows and in that moment, despite his Mugglish clothing, despite the better haircut and the cleaner hair, despite the fact that he wasn't as pale anymore, she was reminded terribly of her former teacher. Just the way he looked at her, just the way he seemed to look down at her, to turn up his nose, to be almost on his way to belittle her.

"I," she looked around and could see Aideen nowhere but could hear her giggle from the living room. "finished my last NEWT today." She told him, pushing her nose up in the air as well.

"How nice for you," he sneered and he was the original Snape. He had in no way, shape or form a resemblance to her head-Severus. No.

No.

He had absolutely no right to treat her this way. This was Snape, she had made sure he got a monthly rent of no small amount. She had finished her NEWTs. She knew she had done well. She knew she had no reason to be belittled by her. She had always defended him, always. And she had been invited there. She hadn't intruded, she had been brought there by Aideen, she had been told by Mrs Callaghan not to go, she had helped cooked. She had almost been forced to cook and almost been forced to stay. He had absolutely no right to treat her this way. She was sick of being treated this way. First Draco with his comment about her hair (and, slightly, Mrs Callaghan), and now this? No.

She straightened a little more – didn't think that was possible – and glared at him.

"Yes, it is. I took more NEWTs than anyone before me, I think. I will pass all of them and I am proud of that. I worked hard and I will get my reward for that hard work. Yes, it is very nice for me."

He looked at her for a moment, curiously, his eyebrows arched further, then said – "Fine."

.


	38. Scalar Implicature

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_There are some well-known diagnostics for scalar implicature. If we entertain the hypothesis that two expressions, call them S and W for 'strong and 'weak' from a scale S,W, then they should permit the following embeddings: _

Canceling phrases:

_'W and even S' (e.g. 'Some and even all of them came) _

_'Not only W, S' (e.g. Not only some of them, all of them came.')_

_'W in fact/indeed S' (e.g. 'Some, in fact all of them, came.')_

_Suspending phrases:_

_'W or possibly/even S' (e.g. 'Some or possibly all of them came.')_

_'W if not S' (e.g. 'Some, if not all of them came.')_

_The rationale, of course, is that because implicatures unlike entailments are defeasible, it is possible to assert the contrary, or explicitly raise its possibility, without any sense of contradiction. _

(Levinson, 2000)

.

Yes, she did notice that Draco held Aideen's hand underneath the table and that he was pretending to be left-handed when in fact, he had difficulties eating. Those two, she Eleanor decided, would have to give it a rest, at least during dinner. At least while they were eating. It wasn't that she didn't remember how it was to be in love. She did, more now that she could see those two being absolutely besotted with one another. She remembered those days when you couldn't wait to see the man you were in love with, when you wanted to just touch him and listen to him and talk to him and have at least a moment alone with him. And hence, she remembered how tempting those moments alone could be and she didn't want to lead them into temptation. She wanted to make sure they knew what they were doing.

And they would have to stop holding hands or Draco would spill all the good food on the good table cloth.

On the other hand, and on the other side of the table, Severus and Miss Granger sat as far apart as they could, not once looking at one another, not looking at anything but their food. Those two were...strange. They had glared at one another when she had almost managed to shut him up, no mean feat. And she had stood up for herself. It seemed that young woman truly was smart and determined to not be belittled by Severus, not be sneered at by him. She had witnessed him doing that to Draco a few times – and that boy had never quite stood up for herself, had only ignored the man. Usually, she would have agreed with Draco – ignoring him when he was in a mood like that – but there had been that split second when he had almost appeared dumbstruck, when his eyes had grown fractionally bigger before his face had fallen into a neutral mask, seemingly unimpressed, seemingly not caring about her and what she had said. He had though, for that split second. Couldn't fool her. It had obviously impressed him, or at least had surprised him what she had done.

She knew that Severus didn't think of himself as having been a good teacher; he had told her, over a long span of time, that he had been known as a 'greasy git', as a 'bat of the dungeons' and that he was the one teacher who had been least respected, least liked. If that was true, she didn't know, or if he only thought like that of himself. Draco certainly said little about it, only that there had been trouble with a few students, that his godfather wanted much of his students, expected plenty and didn't hand out compliments or praise at all. He sounded stern in her eyes, strict. And she knew he had a temper – she witnessed it too often herself, naturally, but Miss Granger at least didn't cower before that temper and Eleanor had to admit that she liked that. Girl had a backbone.

.

Severus Snape scowled into his stew. It was good, that much he had to admit but he did not like sitting next to Granger, hearing her breath and hearing her eat. Yes, he was a possessive bastard, he knew, and those people on this table were the people who accepted him the way he was – more or less. Well, Eleanor wanted to make sure he minded his manners, wanted to make him go out more, wanted him to even eat brussels sprouts, to go to bed early, to tell her what he had done during the day, to put up shelves and help her clean out her attic, Aideen wanted to make sure he used his laptop decently and Draco reminded him often enough that sarcasm was not everyone's native tongue (but that happened in not so many words). But they, more or less, accepted him. They might make suggestions, or order around kindly (Eleanor, mostly) but the last word in everything he did was his and they accepted this.

Granger was certainly one of those people who couldn't leave well alone. Had talked back to him. Oh, hadn't she always? Her and her little friends. Those insufferable Gryffindors who had made his life a living hell (all of them who had made his former life a living hell had been Gryffindors, apart from that one Slytherin), who had never showed any respect for him. Who had left him to die in the Shrieking Shack. Well, to seemingly die. He hadn't expected otherwise. He hadn't expected an apology either. People he had met in his former life did not apologise, least of all those Gryffindors and that one Slytherin.

Thought they had punished him by taking away his magic. But this was no punishment. Well, in general it wasn't. Sitting with Granger at the same table, on the same side of the table, that was punishment and the first time in a long long time that he felt the strong urge to hex someone. Or just bodily remove her from the table. Despite the fact that she was just sitting more or less quietly. Only her chewing and her breathing and that irritated him. This was his seat and the seat next to him was usually empty. He had this side of the table for himself alone. It was his. His seat at Eleanor's. His chair.

Nevertheless, the stew was good and he doubted that she could have made that. It had probably only been Eleanor with her sitting there and chatting and chattering the way she always had at school, the way her mouth could never be still, never stop moving. Well, now she was technically silent but her mouth was still moving, chewing and it irritated him. Someone next to him and an arm that moved in his peripheral vision. Bushy hair that was close to falling into his stew. Really. That hair was everywhere and she had cooked like that? His food?

He turned his head slightly and put on his best scowl, waited long enough for her to see it, then turned back to his food. She did the same – and a moment later, he repeated the exercise, but she couldn't take the hint, typically Gryffindor. She frowned his time, a frown he only caught very briefly, then ate a bit more, until he scowled at her again.

Patience had never been, he remembered, one of Granger's talents, nor being subtle, nor understanding subtlety. The silence, only interrupted by clattering of cutlery against dishes, was broken as she, when he scowled the fifth time, snapped.

"What?"

He arched his eyebrows and softened his scowl a little. "Would you kindly remove your hair from my food?"

"My hair's not anywhere near your food," she snapped again.

"Close enough for one to drop into my stew. And I'd prefer my food hair-free," replied Severus, his voice as deep and as dark as it had ever been when he had taught.

"My hair is not falling into your food," she said, her hand moving to grab it and twist it at the nape of her neck.

"Don't touch it, you're only making it worse," he hissed, ignoring the faint 'Stop it, Severus,' he heard from Eleanor. "Just don't move your head too much."

"I'm not moving my head at all," she glared at him. "And my hair doesn't fall out just like that."

"It will if you keep pulling on it," he snapped. "Just let go slowly and remove it from so close from my food."

"I thought you didn't want me to move it at all," said Granger, a note of triumph in her voice.

"Slowly."

"You're absolutely..." she looked at him and he thought he caught a little bit of wetness shining in her eyes. "Get off my back, Snape," she hissed. "I was invited here and if you can't stand the sight of me or my hair, well, just...blindfold yourself. I'm sure you will find your mouth without..."

"Respect, Granger," he almost shouted.

"Respect?" she shouted back. "Why? You're not my teacher anymore. I will show you respect you the moment you begin to show me some respect. I am not obliged to respect you just because you...I respect what you did. But not you."

"You're..." he began, rather surprised by her entire outburst. Not the pleasant sort of surprise but she seemed like a Gryffindor on the warpath. He had seen the same expression on Minerva McGonagall's face plenty of times before. He knew he could hold his own against those though. They were too predictable. One more unkindly word, and she'd probably run away crying. Had seen it too many times. Gryffindor courage only ever went so far.

"I'm what?" she glared. "Don't you think I've heard all kinds of insults over my hair?"

"I am," he began slowly, ready for the final strike, "only asking you to remove that ridiculous something on your head which nobody in their right mind would call hair from the vicinity of my food."

The chair clattered, naturally, to the ground, she had stood up so quickly and so forcefully. Yes, very predictable. Tears were shining in her eyes, one rolling down her cheek. It lessened her glare a little, and she pulled her lips slightly apart, a grimace of sorts. "You're a bastard, Snape," she tried hard, he could tell, to keep her voice under control and was slowly failing and she turned on her heel and ran out of the room, out of the house.

He sighed and dipped his spoon languidly into the stew – wanted to get it to his mouth, taste this deliciousness without any intruders when there was a sharp pain on his right ear. More precisely, on his right earlobe. Fingers pinching his earlobe and pulling on it.

"What the..."

"Severus Snape, have you absolutely lost your mind?" thundered Eleanor, "Your mam didn't raise you to be a mannerless idiot! What do you think you were doing?" She pulled further on his ear and he couldn't help but turn his head in the direction she wanted him to turn his head and he had to stare into the angrily-twinkling eyes of hers. "Well?" she asked, impatiently.

"I think..." he heard Draco through his left ear, the right one was busy otherwise. Busy being pulled and tortured.

"You two shut up and begin with the dishes," she said forcefully. "Severus, I'm waiting."

Eleanor had shown him more compassion, more kindness, yes, more love than anyone else in his life before. But those attempts at raising him, at treating him like a child sometimes were just...too much. With as much force as he could muster, trying as best as he could to ignore the pain, he jerked his head away, and her fingers, painfully, slid from his earlobe.

"I don't have to justify anything," he said coldly and got up quickly, and with long strides, was gone from the house, into the balmy, smog-filled air, dirty air, but he nevertheless took great lungfuls, one after the other, exhaling, inhaling, pacing in front of his house before he slowly walked in.

So, he had insulted her. She shouldn't have expected anything else from him. And Eleanor shouldn't have expected anything else from her – he had told her often enough that his students never had any respect for him and that it was difficult, vice versa, to have any form of respect for them. She had known he didn't like any of them and she still had gone and invited that awful woman.

Severus shook his head to himself, then trampled upstairs, straight into his bathroom and after shedding his clothes rather quickly, stepping into the very hot shower.

.

She knew her face was tear-streaked and she knew she looked an absolute mess and she hated herself for not pulling her hair up, or away. First Mrs Callaghan, then Draco, then Snape. And what a way to make sure she felt uncomfortable and unwelcome. This was probably worse than the comment about the teeth. It was pure malice.

She stumbled into the library, wanted to bury herself beneath books, in books, and immediately stumbled over Harry, who, quite uncharacteristically, lay flat on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

"Harry...what?"

"Hermione, what happened?" he pointed at her face. "Did the exam not go well?"

Tears, unwelcome and unbidden, sprang to her eyes again. "Do you think my hair is a ridiculous something which nobody in their right mind would call hair?" she asked, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"Erm," he blushed slightly, "It has been a bit out of hand lately," he whispered carefully, "maybe...erm, a trim?"

Hermione stared, struck by his insensitivity (and yes, something inside of her nagged that she should have expected that), and immediately turned around again, said no single word, didn't ask why he was flat on the ground, staring at the ceiling and ran from the house. Rushed, ran, not quite blinded by her tears, and remembered a certain establishment quite close by, ran from memory, not quite seeing and pushed the door she remembered open. Pushed it open and stormed inside, didn't wait, didn't care about the weird stares and fell down a chair. She knew it was wrong, she knew she was rude and she knew that this shouldn't be done that way.

Someone, and she didn't care who or what he or she was, stepped up behind her. "Oh luv," that person said, a male voice. "What can I do for you?"

Hermione swallowed, picked up a strand of hair between her fingers and lifted it up. "Cut it off."

.


	39. Widening

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Widening: In semantic changes involving widening, the range of meanings of a word increases so that the word can be used in more contexts than were appropriate for it before the change. Changes from more concrete to more abstract meanings fit here._

(1) Dog. _English_ dog _first appeared with the more specific meaning of 'a (specific) powerful breed of dog', which generalized to include all breeds or races of dogs. _

(2) Salary. _Latin_ salarium _was a soldier's allotment of salt (based on Latin_ sal _'salt'), which then came to mean a soldier's wages in general, then finally, as in English, wages in general, not just a soldier's pay. _

(3) Cupboard. _In Middle English times, cupboard meant 'a table ('board') upon which cups and other vessels were placed, a piece of furniture to display plates, a sideboard', whose meaning then became 'a closet or cabinet with shelves for keeping cups and dishes', and finally in American it changed to mean any 'small storage cabinet'. In parts of Canada,_ cupboard _has been extended to mean also what others call a 'wardrobe' or 'clothes closet'. Spanish _armario '_cupboard' was borrowed from Latin in the Middle Ages where it had to do with 'arms', 'weapons', and meant 'armoury; later its meaning widened to include present-day 'clothes closet, cupboard'. French_ armoire '_wardrobe, locker, cabinet' (also borrowed into English from French) has the same history. _

(Campbell, 1998)

.

The hairdresser, who had introduced himself as Ray, fingered her hair, while she, impatiently, tapped her foot.

"Cut it off," she repeated.

"Tut, tut, luv. I'm not doing any cuttin' for the moment. Must have been a bad break-up though if you come stormin' in like that."

"Break-up?" she stared straight ahead into the mirror, up at him. His blond hair was spiky on top of his head and he had obviously plucked his eyebrows. "No break-up...just..."

"Need a change," the hairdresser called Ray said with a wink of his eye. "But you don't wanna do anything rash and I won't cut off your hair to half an inch..."

"I want it...shorter."

"We can do shorter, but not radical, luv," he ran his fingers through her hair again. "What do you use now? It's awfully dry and split ends all over the place. When was the last time you had it cut?"

Hermione stared. She hadn't planned on this going like that. She only wanted a haircut. A simple, easy to handle haircut. Not to be asked when she had her last haircut – that would have been...her own wand and a charm. Since her mother had gone, well, had been gone to Australia, nobody had made her go to the hairdresser's and it hadn't been important, really. She had other things on her mind, her NEWTs and finding the perfect Uni for herself, things were just more important. Her hair was only ever in the way and as much as she could, she kept it out of the way. She should have just kept it out of the way that day as well. Then she wouldn't have been in this...what was she doing there anyway? Okay, such a panic reaction wasn't usually like her. And to listen to such fuckwits (oh...well) when it came to her trademark, her hair, wasn't like her either.

But wasn't it always a true true fight in the mornings? Hadn't she despaired of brushing her hair? Wrestling it into a half-way decent looking style? Or at least a pony tail with which she could live a day long? And if that bloke there could do something about it, why not? She had rather expected Aideen and her to go shopping for a bit after the Ancient Runes exam, so she had put enough money in her pocket. Even for an expensive hair dresser. Oh, there was still his question to answer.

She shrugged and kept his gaze in the mirror. "It's been a while. And I use conditioner occasionally."

"Mousse? Gel? Hair wax? Anything? Deep conditioner once in a while?"

Hermione shook her head, feeling even smaller now but the hairdresser smiled brightly at her. "Okay, luv, here's what we do. We wash your hair, put some stuff on it to make it less dry and easier to handle, and then...I have an idea, we'll dye you a shade darker with a few highlights and then...I think a bob, you can style it wavy like Britney Spears did, or straighten it. A few layers...makes it easier for you to handle. Lean back," he smiled still, "and just let yourself go for a while."

She did. It wasn't long before she felt soothing fingers on her scalp, massaging and somehow, her shoulders sagged, her head cleared and she kept her eyes closed. Just kept them closed and waited.

.

Eleanor sat heavily on the sofa. Draco brought Aideen back to uni one more time to get some of her things so she could stay overnight before going down to London to her parents. She always made the same mistakes. She had made the same mistakes with her children. Never quite grasping that they were old enough to make their own mistakes, never quite grasping that they could not be influenced after a certain age, that they couldn't be pulled on the ear and be scolded.

And now, she had made the mistake with Severus. Same mistake. Yes, he had been absolutely rude and it wasn't the best of manners to pick a fight at the dinner table. What was she supposed to have done? Throw the girl out? Never let her help cooking? Tell Aideen not to bring her in the first place? It was too late for that.

She had treated him like a boy and she would have to, well apologise for that. Eleanor rubbed her eyes tiredly. She hated making mistakes like that and apologising didn't come easily but she hated even more that Severus had run out like that and that it had been her fault. She should have maybe informed him beforehand that the girl would be there, should have sent Draco over sooner, or would have at least told him that they had already made comments about the girl's hair. She shook her head to herself and got up again, feeling bone-tired and weary. But she had to fix this before she went to bed. Never again would she part with someone in a fight, would fall asleep bearing a grudge. Never again.

She picked up the leftover strew and dumplings and throwing the wrap he had bought her for Christmas over her shoulder and made her way over to his house. Along the street, not the back way. She wanted him to open the door to her, she wanted him to have a choice, but it wouldn't also be beneath her to wait for a bit on his doorstep.

She took a deep breath, and rang his doorbell, rather waiting for a long wait.

.

Harry decided to show just a little bit of the courage he had been so hailed for before. Hermione had just run out and there was no sense in staying alone at Grimmauld Place. He had, foolishly, rather thought that he would be able to discuss that party, that mystery with her but once more, Harry's plan of action, had been more like, well, open mouth, insert foot. What he did best. He knew not to comment on her hair. Comment on her hair, or on her entire appearance were always dangerous. And he just didn't have enough experience with women to know what was truly acceptable and what wasn't.

So, plucking up courage was the best and the sanest decision. He would have to do this sooner or later and now was as good a time as any, really. So he apparated. He saw his destination clearly in front of his inner eye, loads of green, fields, it was serene, rather. And maybe a bit idealistic, what he saw in his mind. He felt the familiar tug on his navel and barely a moment later, landed on his feet in the midst of those fields, the house he wanted to be in, his destination, just in front of him, almost waiting for him, looking more inviting than he remembered, and he wondered, briefly, why he had ever avoided that.

Ah yes, Ginny. Ginny whom he couldn't love anymore because Ginny loved the boy-who-lived, the saviour, the one who was famous. Ginny, he thought, never wanted to get to know Harry. Or maybe she did and he was just being unkind and unfair. Maybe Ginny, he thought, could have been someone he could have spent the rest of his life with. Such as it was, he didn't want to share his life with anyone. Hermione, yes, because she lived with him and he did want that friendship with Ron again. That easy friendship before all that cruelty of war had started. The laughter and the talking and the shared Chocolate Frog cards. That he wanted. And with his connections to the Quidditch league – hell, maybe he would have to bribe him but he wanted that friendship back. But Ron, despite everything, couldn't be bribed, he knew that. Ron had his own thick head, and...he'd try. He needed to go there and if he was using the pretext of that damned party he was supposed to throw.

With long strides, he walked towards the Burrow, feeling the wards tingle on his skin but being able to walk through without being pulled back, without being burned, without feeling anything but the tingle. He smiled happily to himself, and knocked, as he had so often done, on the door to the kitchen.

It was almost flung open and Ron, his mouth hanging wide open, stood there. "Hey Ron," said Harry, pushing the nervousness that had built in his stomach down.

.

"Wake up, luv," the hairdresser called Ray whispered in her ear. Hermione almost jumped. She had truly dozed. In a hairdresser's. Had felt so much better, only by the person called Ray focusing all her attention on her. She had felt colour being applied to her hair, she had walked, on her own, probably, to get it rinsed out. And she had somehow, far away, heard the scissors cutting, she had seen a blurry outline of herself, or not herself, in the mirror. She had seen a darker haired, highlighted image of herself in the mirror. Blurry, of course. And somehow between that and the hairdresser whispering in her ear, she must have dozed off. That had never happened. But her mind had been so clear, had been so free of all thought and she had felt so utterly relaxed...it was no surprise really. She had been so wound up about the NEWTs and about getting a decent long-distance portkey to Australia, had thought too much in the weeks before. And Harry had so often been away playing Quidditch that they had barely time to talk with one another.

But now, she felt refreshed. Just a short nap, probably, but she felt ready to go to Australia, to forget about Snape, to forget about Draco and all that.

"What do you think?" Ray asked and she, now, for the first time, took a long, good look at herself. The tips of her hair brushed her shoulders, it was wavy, not curly, it was...a dark, chocolate brown with lighter brown and golden highlights. Wavy. It looked truly pretty, really. Her hair looked pretty. She raised her hand and touched it carefully. Yes, it was her hair but it didn't feel like her hair, it was soft and glided through her fingers and waves. Not curls. Waves. Gentle, irregular waves, not one looking like the other but at the same time turning into a rather pretty complete hairstyle.

"It's...erm...wow."

Ray smiled. "I'm glad, luv. Now, what you wanna do is use conditioner. Deep conditioner once in a while, then mousse in your hair, and for heaven's sake, only brush your hair when it's wet. Never when it's dry. Let it dry naturally, or use the blow dryer but gently. Not too hot either. Pull the waves in form, do not scrunch them up, or do so but then your hair will be absolutely curly. Don't go to bed with your hair wet and do not brush your hair when it's dry. Understood?"

She nodded mutely. Not brushing hair. She would figure out a spell to dry it decently. Mousse in it. Conditioner. She looked at herself again. Not completely different. But her face wasn't dominated by the mass of hair, by the bushy something. Her face was her face and it was framed by waves and by dark brown hair. Again, she pulled on one of the waves, absolutely awestruck how her hair could look like.

.

It was Eleanor. He was sure of it. He didn't debate opening the door, he just did. The woman...well, he just felt obliged to open the door to her and to listen to what she had to say, probably apologise. And if he had told her the entire story, of Harry Potter and his two little friends, she would have probably not invited her. She would have probably discouraged the girl from staying. And what had she done? She had treated him like a child. Deep in his mind, he knew that she had raised five children. That she had some of her grandchildren around. And that rudeness on the table could not be accepted if you had so many around it, usually. He didn't like it, didn't like it one bit, but...he had seen so many people make that mistake – treating him like a child.

Dum...Dumbledore...Albus Dumbledore had his moments when he had treated Severus like a child. And Minerva McGonagall had her moments when she had treated Severus like a child. When they still saw the student, not the colleague, not the teacher, but the child who had attended Hogwarts. Professor Sprout had been rather good at ignoring that he was a fully fledged teacher. Binns, he remembered, had never even called him anything but 'Young Severus'. And she had made the same mistake. Seemed to be a universal thing. Seemed to be something people were prone to do when they saw him, despite the fact that he looked every single one of his years if the mirror didn't lie. And mirrors only rarely lied.

And so, he opened the door, to see her standing there, the wrap he had bought her for Christmas around her shoulders, her bare arms holding a plastic container – probably full of the leftover dinner.

"I'm sorry, Severus," she said, her eyes honest and full of emotion.

He merely stepped aside, let her into his house, let her push the container in his hands and moved straight to his kitchen, looking over her shoulder as she did so. "I should have told you that Draco and me had made fun of her hair before and that she was maybe a little wound up from writing her exams. And I should have asked you if it was alright letting her stay for dinner. Aideen brought her over and her and Draco were busy being amorous out in the garden and so I talked to her and you know what I'm like...she said she couldn't cook and I couldn't contain myself. I'm sorry, Severus. And I'm sorry for treating you like a child. It's just a thing a mother never seems to be able to get out of her system..."

He nodded and moved, without thinking really, to put the kettle on, threw a teabag each in two cups and looked at her. She was...she felt bad about what she had done, he could see that. And for heaven's sake, he did not want to lose that person in his life.

Eleanor smiled. "You know me, Severus. Aideen tells me she's got nobody to celebrate the end of her school-career with and asks me to bring her over and I can't help but say yes. And her parents in Australia. Alone but with that friend of hers." She shook her head and grasped the cup of tea as soon as he had set it on the table. "I wouldn't have...but..."

He only nodded briefly and kept looking in her eyes.

"I won't invited her again," she smiled and took his hand, squeezing it gently. "And I won't pull your ear again."

"Thank you," he said sarcastically, rubbing his earlobe.

She nodded, seemingly grateful in his eyes. Gratitude in hers. "I didn't know you disliked her that much and your remarks about her hair..."

Yes, he had been unfair, he knew. Her hair hadn't been anywhere near his food but – he hadn't been able to help it. He hadn't wanted her there and he wanted her to leave. Even if she left under tears. Didn't care at that moment. But her words had stuck in his head...'I respect what you did, but not you.' She had said that.

But – hadn't he always defined himself through what he had done?

His hand squeezed Eleanor's back. His hand had forgiven Eleanor for pulling his ear and for shouting at him. He was not an unreasonable man. He was not always unfair. And - he had come to care for his neighbour a lot.

Eleanor smiled at him and her left eye seemed to wink at him. "Oh Severus. My life would certainly be less interesting with you but I'm glad I have you now. And I will try not to treat you like a child."

He nodded silently and with the one hand that wasn't help captive by Eleanor's, he raised his teacup to his lips and took a long sip.

.


	40. Perlocutionary Act

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The perlocutionary act may be either the achievement of a perlocutionary object (convince, persuade) or the production of a perlocutionary sequel. Thus the act of warning may achieve its perlocutionary object of alerting and also have the perlocutionary sequel of alarming, and an argument against a view may fail to achieve its object but the perlocutionary sequel of convincing our opponent of its truth ('I only succeeded in convincing him'). What is the perlocutionary object of one illocution may be the sequel of another. For example, warning may produce the sequel of deterring and saying 'Don't', whose object is to deter, may produce the sequel of alerting or even alarming. Some perlocutionary acts are always the producing of a sequel, namely those where there is no illocutionary formula: this II may surprise you or upset you or humiliate you by a locution though there is no illocutionary formula 'I surprise you by...', 'I upset you by...'', 'I humiliate you by...'_

_It is characteristic of perlocutionary acts that the response achieved, or the sequel, can be achieved additionally or entirely by non-locutionary means: thus intimidation may be achieved by waving a stick or pointing a gun. _

(Austin, 1965)

.

When she wrapped her arms around his waist and when she put her head gently on his shoulder or lay it against his chest, when his own arms went around her and when he splayed his fingers possessively over her back, Draco felt happy and content. This, he knew, was such a simple statement, so little, and yet, at the same time, it expressed exactly what he felt. It wasn't overbubbling joy, it wasn't exuberant pleasure. It was quiet and it was sigh-inducing. It made him happy, it made him content. Everything else was in the background when he held her and it didn't matter that he was lying to her constantly, that he had not yet told her that he was a wizard or that he only earned that much money because he could _convince_ customers that this or that suit suit them. Of course should the Ministry find out, there would be hell to pay, naturally, but by now, he didn't care. He cared about Aideen and about her hands stroking the back of his neck and her face coming closer and closer to his and their lips meeting. He was well aware that he had to apparate to London afterwards and ask Hermione Granger what that had been about and ask her to, well, maybe stay away from his godfather for a while, but now, it was only her arms around him and her kiss. Nothing more, nothing less.

.

"Come in," said Ron after a moment of both of them staring at one another. "Did anything happen?"

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't been hit yet, and Ron was only doing a mild form of staring which implied mostly surprised and not anger or resentment or anything else. He shook his head slowly. "Erm, that depends on the point of view. Did your father...I mean did he mention..."

"The party, yeah," Ron nodded. "Dad said."

"Harry!" he heard a voice, and a second later, he was crushed in a hug. A familiar hug he had felt so often before – but hadn't expected to feel it just now. Molly was supposed to be angry with him because of, well, she thought that he and Hermione...but she had probably either forgiven him, or had forgotten, or had, most likely, just decided to ignore it and that enough time had passed.

"Hello Mrs Weasley," he said, muffled against her shoulder where she had pressed his head against.

"What do you want about the party?" Ron asked, not unfriendly.

"Erm," he tried to disentangle himself from the hug but was, once more, crushed against Molly Weasley.

"Ron, put the kettle on, please. And no more talk about this party. It's a stupid idea to try to bait someone. And just because Malfoy," she snorted the name, "thinks it's a good one, we do not have to agree. Harry, you're not giving this party. There are other ways."

"Erm," Harry felt, well, weird. This was not what he had expected. He felt like he had been transported in a sort of alternate universe where nothing had ever happened, where Ginny would bounce into the kitchen and hug him and give him a kiss and...no, that wouldn't happen and he didn't want that to happen.

"It's good you're back," he thought he heard Molly Weasley whisper.

"Erm," Harry said again and truly wanted to ask whether she had forgiven him, whether this entire family had forgotten that he had dumped Ginny, or whether it was just forgotten and then it hit him – of course. The Daily Prophet. Him playing Quidditch. They would read that, or at least Molly would, and it said in every other issue that he was still looking for the love of his life and that he was single. She would believe that, probably. And it had helped that nobody had ever spotted Hermione watching a match he played, just because she was busy herself, and just because Quidditch wasn't her greatest pleasure.

"I'm glad to be back," he told her and finally managing to step away out of her arms, he smiled lopsidedly.

"Yeah," said Ron suddenly, and thumped him hard on the back. "Stay for dinner?"

.

"I just...don't really want to be reminded of the past," said Severus, slowly and quietly. "Draco is my godson, and he's careful not to ever use magic around me, I know. But she was always the one who knew everything. I don't doubt that she tried to figure out a way how to take the curse off me. Or maybe she still tries, I don't know. She always read up on everything and she solved all the puzzles and wanted to make sure she knew everything. Her nose was always in a book and she constantly waved her hand in the hair. Never stopped. She never held back once, not even when you gave her detention, not even when you belittled her. She was determined though, always to know the most and I suppose it was just her love of books and her love of learning but maybe it was just a way to prove herself, which would have made sense, in a way, I suppose, she being a Muggleborn and always knowing that she would have to work harder in order to be accepted. And I knew she didn't have friends until she ran into those two miscreants. And even then, she only had those two and nobody else. Don't even know if she still is friends with them anymore," he looked straight into the empty fireplace, never taking his eyes off it, "I thought there was a romance between her and the Weasley boy but I suppose I would have heard or maybe not. Not that I care. And why should I? She clearly never had any respect for him, or so she claims. Always thought she was the only third of that trio that could see that there is not only black and white in the world, that there are shades of grey, that Dark doesn't necessarily mean Dark all the time. That you have to lose a battle sometimes in order to win a war, that there are casualties, and that there are blurred lines instead of clean-cut frontiers. Was probably wrong. Not that I care. I just don't want her there," he muttered. "She doesn't belong here. She is one of those who came out of the war a heroine and lauded and acceptance of everyone. She should be bathing in the light the Wizarding World cast on her. She should not sit here celebrating her NEWTs. She has other places to celebrate. And she should truly pull up that hair or the first potion she brews like that will be an absolute disaster. And I truly didn't fancy finding one of her hairs in my stew."

Severus Snape knew that he should have told all of this to Eleanor, as an apology, maybe, or an explanation. But she had left and he had found no words to explain to this kind old woman, who had apologised to him. And yet, in the back of his head, somewhere grumbling in his brain, was a voice that told him that he would have to find some way of letting Eleanor Callaghan now how much he appreciated her and that he liked her and that it was simply the girl's presence, and him being not warned beforehand, which had unbalanced him and which had him leash out like that.

.

Harry sat amidst four Weasleys. Arthur, Molly, George, and Ron. Ginny, they had explained, was spending her summer hols with Charlie in Romania and her absence had nothing to do with his presence. In fact, Molly said, she was seeing a lovely friend of Charlie's who also worked with dragons but thought about transferring to Britain to work for the Ministry. It all seemed so normal, he had even played a round of Quidditch with Ron before their meal. George had had the later shift at their shop, leaving Ron to be at the Burrow, and he had ruffled Harry's hair affectionately. Molly beamed at him and Arthur beamed at him, despite the fact that they both had opposing views of that party he was supposed to throw.

Somehow, this wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be and on the other hand, it was worse because this family acted like nothing had ever happened and he hadn't figured out that he had always been, more or less, welcome. Had been his own fault, he realised.

.

Draco wrinkled his nose and knocked on the door. There were wards, naturally, but those had been easy to get through. But not the door. An Alohomora hadn't helped, and any other unlocking spell he knew had been equally ineffective. Well, it was probably just as well, rude enough to just undo wards and then stumbling into a house was not the way he had been brought up – nor what he wanted to do.

Not that he liked being there in the first place. He truly only wanted to make cuddle a bit, snog a bit with Aideen. Maybe, if they were alone get his hand under her shirt. Just a bit, nothing too serious, she didn't like it. Not too quick or she would probably run. Had to be careful with her if he wanted to continue seeing her and he did. More than anything. And that was, actually, why he was there. Because if he made sure that Aideen could continue seeing Granger, and he had that in his hands, more or less, Aideen would be nicer to him and maybe cut her time with her parents in London short to stay with her grandmother and him. He wouldn't mind apparating to London once in a while, or every day after work, but it would be difficult to explain that to her how he managed that. The trains took much longer and he couldn't drive a car yet. Not that he didn't plan to learn. It would be fun and shock his father to no end. That would be...amusing to say the least.

He almost sniggered to himself, there, waiting in front of the door of that grubby old house on Grimmauld Place, thinking how his father would look like if he used Eleanor's car and drove with it straight to Malfoy Manor. Park it in front of it and hop out of the car. His father would absolutely freak out. And how lovely that thought was at the moment.

"Coming!" he heard Granger shout from inside. "Harry, will you remember to bring your key? You know you can't get in without it," her grating voice came closer and closer and the door was flung open. Oh, that woman had no idea about safety.

"Oh," she said, her face falling slightly and she looked – different. Draco frowned and pushed her aside slightly to step into the house.

"Are you serious, Granger?" he asked, pointing at her hair. It looked, well, different. Not like Granger but then exactly like Granger. Like a different kind of Granger. With different hair. Waves and darker. And less bushy and less all over the place. "You seriously cut your hair?"

"Yes," she said haughtily. "That a problem?"

"Because we made fun of it?" he asked, stunned.

"Don't be silly."

"Then it's a weird coincidence," muttered Draco, still staring at the hair. Shorter, looked lighter, looked less like a mass of bushiness and more like an actual hairstyle.

"What do you want?"

"I actually wanted to...you did cut it because Severus made those comments? And because we did? Did you lose all integrity, Granger? I mean really. You know we were just joking, you heard all of them before."

"I did not cut my hair because of you and your stupid jokes or because your godfather made nasty remarks. I cut it because I wanted to cut it."

"You can tell that anyone but not me...seriously, Granger," he shook his head and looked at her. "Come on, be honest."

"Why are you here?" she asked again.

"Because Aideen wants to be your friend still and I thought...well, she still wants to be your friend. But to cut your hair...Granger...Hermione, come on. I certainly didn't intend to hurt you and Severus is...he's..."

"I had the idea because of all of you at first, alright?" she almost screeched, "But then I decided that I wanted it different. And then I didn't think about your comments anymore."

"Okay," said Draco slowly and observed her interestedly. She didn't seem too happy with it altogether. More like...sad. And almost-teary-eyed.

"I like it, okay?" he huffed and a tear slid down her cheek.

"And that's why you're crying?" he asked softly.

"I'm not crying and I like it," tears leaking from both eyes now.

"Granger...Hermione," he groaned. He had no idea what to do with crying woman. He didn't know anything about it. And she was unleashing a veritable flood of tears.

"I know, I'm silly," she cried, "I like it but I don't like it at the same time and it's not me but it is me and I miss my hair," she fell silent, only the odd sob escaping her mouth.

Draco, awkwardly, patted her shoulder. That was the way he had seen Aideen do it if she didn't hug to console and just as awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "I like it," he said quietly. "Suits you."

.


	41. Onomatopoeic

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_While it is true that a number of words in any language are onomatopoeic (echoing natural sounds), it is hard to see how most of the soundless, not to mention abstract, entities in our world could have been referred to in a language that simply echoed natural sounds. […] It has also been suggested that the original sounds of language came from natural cries of emotion, such as pain, anger and joy. By this route, presumably, OUCH came to have its painful connotations. Other injections, often represented as AH!, HEY!, WOW! or YUCK!, are not actually uttered via the consonants and vowels we use in trying to write them down. They also are often produced with sudden intakes of breath (the opposite of ordinary talk). Basically, the expressive noises people make in emotional reactions contain sounds that are not otherwise used in their language and, consequently, seem to be unlikely candidates as source-sounds._

(Yule, 1995)

.

It was dark.

It was cold.

It was damp.

She couldn't even see the hand if she held it before her eyes.

Her eyes hurt.

Her hands hurt.

She crumbled to the wet, damp, cold, dark floor and put her head between her knees.

She tried to breathe calmly, and tried to sort her thoughts.

.

Summer was over. Well, almost. He had spent a week with Eleanor in London, after much wheedling on her part and with him stuck in Stephen's library the entire week. No, him holing himself up in Stephen's library, making notes, working on his future classes, having discussions with Stephen. He hadn't really left the house and nobody had asked him to. They had gone home again and he had been glad to sleep in his own bed and to sort all the notes he had made in London, in Stephen's library.

And now, it was a week before term started, Aideen would come back to Manchester as well, and Draco was more than happy to see his girlfriend again, being unable to meet her in London often – how would have explained that he could just pop down there to see her? But then again, he had been the one to suffer under this – Draco spending almost every night at his place, Eleanor in tow, emailing back and forth frantically.

He still shook his head when he remembered his godson's soppily happy face.

Other than that, the summer had been – calm. Eleanor had cooked for him, he had helped with the garden, had, naturally, looked over her shoulder when she had cooked, and she had looked over his shoulder when he had looked after the garden. The little hiccup about Miss Granger had been forgotten by both of them and he was glad about that.

.

She wasn't sure what time it was.

It was dark, not a bit of light.

She knew she couldn't have been where she was now for long but how could she tell the time?

It was silent.

Absolutely no noise.

She was scared.

Harry had spent his summer playing Quidditch, and rebuilding his bridges with the Weasleys. Molly, for now, had succeeded in telling Arthur that she thought the party was a stupid idea and it had been put on ice. Not that they were any closer to figuring out who was behind these attacks. And probably behind the death of Salvatore Scabior, whom Harry remembered as a Snatcher under Greyback's command. However, Scabior had defected from the Death Eaters and the Snatchers, had offered names and deeds and had confessed in full and after three months in Azkaban, he had been free and worked, legally, in Florean Fortescue's re-opened ice-cream parlour. And he was now dead, too. It made no sense. Stripping Snape from his magic, Imperiusing Lucius Malfoy who was then forced to attack Muggles, Salvatore Scabior dead and Goyle Senior had died in Azkaban. But that was no surprise, really.

But, in all honesty, Harry hadn't thought all that much about it during the summer. Quidditch filled his days, either professionally, or playing at the Burrow. In the evenings, he returned to London, talked to Hermione for a bit, went to bed. And that was it. He liked it. It was easy, it was simple, it was carefree. Despite the mystery of the unknown person, curse-caster, killer.

.

Suddenly, she heard a faint noise and a moment later, she was blinded by the faintest ray of light coming in from somewhere, a door, presumably. There was the faintest clink, no other sound, then the ray of light vanished, a door clicked close again, no key turned in a lock.

It was dark again.

She crawled, on hands and knees on the most likely dirty, wet and smelly floor to where she had heard the clink and feeling with her frozen fingertips, she found something – a glass of water and a bowl of something.

She drank greedily, thirsty as she was, then fell back on her bottom, despair washing over her in waves and tears fell on the dirty, soiled flagstones.

.

Eleanor had enjoyed the summer greatly. She had seen her son, had done some things in London with him and her daughter-in-law. Had seen her great-grandson, Brooklyn (what a name!) and had been more than happy to be back at home. She had not quite forgotten how odd Severus had behaved the days following her inviting Hermione Granger for that meal – he had been most forthcoming, the most polite and he had even (and that had never happened before) brought her flowers. Not that he actually said he was sorry, but everything said so.

Now, she wasn't sure how she felt that term was about to start again – Aideen would be coming back and Draco would be more than glad to have her around once more, but Severus would not look over her shoulder again while she cooked and she couldn't almost hear him making mental notes on what she did. He would only be doing that on the weekends and she would miss those evenings in his house. Those evenings when she could just sit quietly with Severus while Draco sat waiting behind the laptop or typed frantically while smiling soppily.

No, she would miss having her boys around at the evenings – Severus would be sure to have to prepare for classes and Draco would want to spend some time with Aideen. But, Christmas wasn't so far away and she would have her entire family (and yes, she counted Draco and Severus to her family now) with her. And she still had a week in which to spoil her boys, and spoil herself by being with them.

.

It was dark.

She was hungry.

She didn't dare to touch the bowl even though she could smell the soup from where she had rolled herself into a ball. Her tears had stopped and as soon as she had some rest, she would try to find a way out. But rest first. Her entire body hurt.

Someone had grabbed her hard, and then there was only darkness she remembered. Nothing else. Darkness, coldness, dampness, smelliness.

.

Draco couldn't wait to see Aideen again. Had only seen her twice during those long weeks. Gone to London twice, had apparated on Friday after work and had fibbed about having half a day off when in fact, he had worked the entire day and had told her he had taken the train. But it wasn't nearly enough, even though he had been allowed to sleep in the same room with her. Two different beds, naturally. Her family was rather strict about that and while he wouldn't have minded to have her in his arms during the night, it was just soothing to hear her breathing and snoring slightly.

Returning back to Manchester had been rather hard then but Eleanor and Severus had done their best to distract him. Well, Eleanor had. Severus had been annoyed by his use of his godfather's laptop to email Aideen. But so what?

He had seen Granger a few times in London, and had been close to seeing his father but had then backed out. Wasn't ready and couldn't even say why exactly. He would though. With Aideen. To make it clear to his father that this was the woman he loved and, well, absence had made his heart grow even fonder and he truly never wanted to be parted from her again.

Granger had apparently grown used to her hair, at least judging from the way she had tossed it around her head the last time he had seen her. No particular reason for that, really, except that Aideen had wanted to meet her in London and the pub had been closed.

A muggle pub! That had been fun. The ale had tasted good and Aideen and Hermione had giggled a lot after they had something called Bacardi Breezer. Of course the way home had been an adventure (and he had to make sure that Granger hadn't splinched herself) and Aideen's louder snores had been adorable.

Yes, it had been a different summer. Not to be compared with the cold, boring ones at Malfoy Manor, let alone the one he had to spent with the Death Eaters – but what a lovely summer it had been and how lovely it would be to have Aideen return.

.

She crawled through the darkness.

There had been a door.

Someone had brought in a glass of water and a bowl of soup.

She couldn't feel it, it was only damp stone on the wall. Nothing but cold stone.

No wood, nothing to dig her fingernails in and she had no other tool on her. Nothing. Just her clothes. Nothing else.

It was dark and cold and she shivered violently before she rolled herself into a ball again, her knees hurting.

.

It had taken her a week to get used to her image in the mirror and it had taken three to figure out how the hairdresser called Ray had styled her hair and another week to get her wand to do what she wanted and to get her hair to be the way she wanted it to be.

She had visited York, the Uni, she had enjoyed it greatly. Her parents had been great but she had only been in Australia for two weeks. She was looking forward to begin her term, to dig her heels into mathematics. She didn't expect to make friends – but it was the challenge of learning something which she hadn't done in ages. When had been the last time she had done any kind of maths? Well, apart from the voluntary stuff she had done over the summer?

Hermione still had to grin when she saw Aideen's shocked face and Draco's grimace when they had spotted her notes. Hadn't been difficult to explain to Aideen about Grimmauld Place – she had stuck to the truth, an inheritance. But she had still been impressed. Wouldn't ever forget Draco in the pub and how he had made sure she hadn't splinched herself when Aideen had taken a cold shower and he had apparated back to Grimmauld Place secretly. If she hadn't been so tipsy, she hadn't seen the gentlemanly side and only the annoying, controlling bloke who didn't even trust her to apparate drunkenly.

Still, she had figured out her plan, how long it took her to get from a secluded spot she could apparate to her lecture halls and her building in York, how long it would take her. She had her schedule, and she was prepared. She would allow herself a day or two off, would maybe go to the Burrow with Harry – he had asked her so often and had told her so often that nobody bore any grudges. But so far, she hadn't wanted to go. Not that she never would. She would. Maybe soon. With her new hair. She liked her new hair now that it behaved.

Would have to thank Snape, really, for giving her the idea in the first place. Well, not really. Would stay as far away from him as she could.

.

Time had no meaning anymore. She tried to count slowly in her head, then aloud to stop the silence from engulfing her. And when that didn't help, she pulled herself up, her back against a stone wall, her knees drawn up to her chest and when Aideen could only hear the silence, she took a deep breath and screamed as loud as she could.

.


	42. Conversational Interaction

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_In simple terms, English conversation can be described as an activity where, for the most part, two or more people take turns at speaking. Typically, only one person speaks at a time and there tends to be an avoidance of silence between speaking turns. (This is not true in every culture.) If more than one participant tries to talk at the same time, one of them usually stops. For the most part, participants wait until one speaker indicates that he or she has finished, usually by signaling a completion point. Speakers can mark their turns as 'complete' in a number of ways: by asking a question, for example, or by pausing at the end of a completed syntactic structure like a phrase or a sentence. _

(Yule, 1995)

.

"Sit down, Draco," Mrs Callaghan huffed.

"But she said..."

"I know what she said, but this is Aideen. If she's half a day late, she's half a day late. She has that from her mother. She won't be here any sooner just because you pace," the older woman said kindly and moved behind him, pressed her hands on his shoulders and, just after guiding him towards a chair, pushed him down. "She will call."

"I don't know why she didn't want me to come to the station," he pouted.

"Because she meets some of her friends, as she told you. What is it with you lovey-dovey people?" she mocked good-naturedly, "always forgetting things?"

He pouted some more and, in a move he knew he would have never dared back with his family, he put his head sideways on the table, but a moment later, he felt soft, wrinkly fingers carding in his hair, "Be patient. When girls are together, they forget about the time, and as much as she misses you, she hasn't seen her friends in a long time either, and bringing all her things back. She will be here soon."

Draco nodded, not letting his face betray that he liked Mrs Callaghan acting like a grandmother – a grandmother he never had like this – talking to him, distracting him, making him tea and, even though he would never admit that he liked it, fingers stroking hair.

He sighed and sat up straight the way he had been taught and took a sip of the tea Mrs Callaghan had put before him the moment he had returned from work. His mug between his hands. _His_ mug.

Yes, it was odd that he felt absolutely no longing to see his father or even less longing to see his mother. Not that his mother, according to his sources, even resided in Europe per se anymore. No, it had been her choice, according to his sources, to tour the world and was, currently, somewhere on the Crimea, whatever she wanted there, he wasn't sure. Oh yes, there was an ancient great-great-great-aunt or something which lived there. No doubt, he was blasted off the family-tree by now. Didn't matter, he had all the family he needed right there, if only Aideen would finally arrive.

.

"Severus!" he heard behind him and for a moment, hesitated. He remembered that voice and truly didn't want to turn around. He had managed, apart from one quick email, telling him that he had very successfully passed all his exams and had received the best possible grades on his papers, not heard from anyone at University. Not even from Dr Deveney. And that was her voice. Behind him. And he had so hoped that he could buy some of the pads, the new pens, ink, all the other things he needed for the upcoming term, in peace. Without running into someone – not that he knew many people – but some of Eleanor's friends from church had taken to greeting him, even though he, contrary to Draco, never went to church with her. And those old biddies were annoying but now – Dr Deveney? Any of the old biddies would be welcome for a nosy chat now. Had not yet figured out what that woman had wanted, and why she screamed through the entire shop now so that nobody could have possibly missed his name.

He rolled his eyes and turned around slowly. He could not avoid talking to her, really. And, much as he was loath to admit it, he had to take her class. If he wanted to further his studies, he would have to and her class had been alright. He had learned things.

"Dr Deveney," he replied curtly.

"Annie," she rolled her eyes and smiled – happily? Happily. Her eyes sparkled. They bloody sparkled. If he didn't know it better, he would have said, that, in his experience, someone had hit her with a Confundus Charm. And maybe she had been, maybe someone was using her to get to him. But, no, this was ridiculous. He was no threat to the Wizarding World. He was, for all intents and purposes, a Muggle and had no contact to any wizards, apart from his godson. Plus, nobody truly knew what he was doing – even though, of course, he wouldn't know if the Ministry kept their sneaky eyes on him.

He nodded shortly.

"I, erm, wanted to contact you but after you didn't react when I wrote that email..." she blushed a little and looked on the ground.

Blushing. Not looking at him. Despite the fact that he was a Muggle now, he couldn't forget his years training as a spy. His years of observing other people and of reading them, and priding himself on the fact that he used to be quite good at reading them, of knowing what they wanted to say without them actually saying it. Blushing, her inability to look him in the eye, her shouting his name and that happy smile, it only added up to one thing. And that one thing was as likely as him deciding to become a nun. Including the sex-change and the sudden belief in God.

She couldn't possibly see something more in him than a student.

And yet, this was what her entire behaviour, and that coffee before the summer holidays, added up to. It couldn't be though. It couldn't possibly be. Someone fancying him? Severus Snape? Ugly git? Not possible. And still, that thought, in that quick moment in which he stood there, looking at the top of her head, wouldn't leave him and he, because his natural curiosity returned after being cast away from his known life, decided to put his theory to the test. Not obviously but subtly. Slowly. Cautiously.

"I wanted to," he said silkily, "but I was away for the most part of the holidays and without a computer," he lied and, oddly enough, her head shot up and she beamed. If it hadn't been so unlikely, her fancying him, this would have been quite clear. But as it was so unlikely, he needed more proof.

Maybe she was too vain to wear glasses and couldn't see him decently. Maybe this was why she beamed. It was bizarre.

"Oh, somewhere nice?" she asked, her smile still very visible on her face.

He took a moment to answer and arched his eyebrows. "London," he replied then, letting his voice drop a bit. Her eyes, in the moment when he uttered the word, widened a fraction, her smile grew just a tad softer and her eyes sparkled more, she twirled a strand of hair around her finger and her tongue darted out to lick her lips.

Unmistakable. But so unlikely.

"Will I see you in class then? I haven't received my lists yet since I was on holiday as well."

"Somewhere nice?" he mimicked.

"Bermuda," she grinned. "My aunt emigrated when she was a young woman and she finally invited me after oh-so-many years."

He nodded, then cleared his throat. "And yes, I decided to attend your class, but you will have to excuse me, now, my neighbour's granddaughter is due to arrive and I promised to be there to greet her," he nodded once more and slowly, just to see how she would react, just because he was extraordinarily curious and because he still couldn't believe his own theory, he raised his hands towards her and barely half a second passed before she grasped it, not tightly, not limply, gently, really, a woman's touch and her hand lingered in his for a moment before she let her fingers drag along his hand instead of just letting go.

He tried hard not to arch his eyebrows further, not to let his thoughts show on his face as he turned with a quick good-bye to pay and leave. He had things to think about and a good meal to eat while he pondered over those things. Not to mention the fact that he had the chance of, once more, empirically witness how a woman in love, or fancying someone, looked like.

And Draco would be much more bearable and less pouting as soon as Aideen returned.

.

Hermione closed the book with an air of self-satisfaction and stretched the sore muscles in her neck and in her back. She liked that kind of feeling, being hunched over a new book for too long and then feeling her vertebrae crack slowly back into place, sitting straighter for a while then she usually did. Harry had returned home a little while ago and his first way had, of course, not led him into the library but into the kitchen where he stored what leftovers Molly Weasley had so generously given him. She wasn't stupid – and ate whatever he brought back (always enough for her as well), even if she, so far, had not gone back to the Burrow.

It was just that she had never been quite as close to the Weasleys as Harry had been, she had never the need for a surrogate family as he had. But apparently Ron and Arthur Weasley and the rest had asked after her and it was like a truce, or maybe like an apology, she wasn't sure, that Molly Weasley always gave Harry enough food for two. Well, soon. Tomorrow. Or the day after. Before Uni started. Sometime that week, she would go with him. Probably. Most likely.

"Hermione?" said Harry softly.

"Hey," she smiled.

"Erm, the Weasleys say hi," he continued.

"Say hi back," she nodded, seeing, from years of knowing him, that there was something else he wanted to tell her and he couldn't, or didn't know how to.

There was a rather long and awkward pause, then: "So what you've been doing all day long?"

"Is there something you want to tell me, Harry?" she smirked, pulling the pen she had stuck in her hair to keep it up, out and letting her still new and manageable hair tumbling down.

"I like your hair this way," he said in a strange voice.

"Okay, seriously, this is...did someone say something? You usually can't stop telling me what you did at the Weasleys and you usually try to persuade me to go with you the next time and now you're really weird. What?"

"Ron and George fight all the time and he doesn't want to live with his parents anymore and Iinvitedhimtoliveherewithus," he said rushedly.

Hermione frowned slightly, then smiled. Well, yes, it would be weird but it wasn't like she and Ron had parted with a huge fight – on the contrary. They had both been hurt and they had both wanted to get a bit of distance between them, but they had, in the end, went their separate ways as sort of friends. And they had lived sort of together before. She would be away more often than not and Aideen had already invited her to spend some weekends with her in Manchester. So, if he worked and she went to Uni and had studying to do at night, he would avoid the library, he would probably be away most nights as well, and they would hardly cross paths. The house was big enough – oh but it had been cute to see Harry so flustered. Especially since it was his house. She wasn't even paying rent, really. Only bought food and other things for the daily life once in a while.

"And?" she laughed.

"I thought that you...and I mean...maybe you would have...not wanted it and I mean, I don't want you to move out," he stammered.

"I won't," she smiled and got up to embrace him tightly. "I haven't seen Ron in a while but...it could be fine."

Harry pushed her away slightly and stared at her. "Really?"

"Really," she still laughed. To make such a fuss. Only because she didn't see the Weasleys regularly, but no, so far, she had nothing against Ron moving in. Not that she had the right to complain.

.

By the time the roast beef (Aideen's favourite meal) was done, Eleanor began to have that slightly uncomfortable, fluttering feeling in her stomach. Severus had been on time and had explained how teenage girls at Hogwarts (she knew that had been their school) behaved on the first day back after the holidays. Well, not explained, more sneered about, made fun of. But Draco had begun pacing and had, when she had to take the roast beef from the oven, picked up the phone and from his memory, had called her mobile phone.

And that was when the feeling in her stomach had not been slightly uncomfortable and fluttering anymore, but stabbing and very, very uncomfortable. That had been when she knew that her eyes had shown worry. It wasn't, she knew, like Aideen to not answer her mobile. She was glued to that thing. And now – no answer. Nothing. Just ringing. The first time Draco called, the second time she called and the third time Draco called again.

This wasn't like Aideen. This wasn't like her at all.

She shook her head to herself, then caught Severus's gaze. He seemed to chew on the inside of his cheek, then cleared his throat.

"Call her parents," he said and his voice sounded, or was probably supposed to sound, calm. "Maybe she missed the train and left her mobile somewhere."

It was a logical explanation. But one which didn't fit Aideen at all. Yes, she was sometimes late and didn't call before but she wouldn't miss the train and not call. That wasn't like her at all. Draco nodded, and she could see him trembling ever so slightly when he punched in the number of Aideen's parents in London.

.

This was – worrying. Severus had no other word for it. Draco had definitely no words for it, for he currently slumped in a chair, paler than usual, his hair a mess since he had run his fingers through it so often. Eleanor had definitely no words for it, fr she was only shaking almost violently and he had to take the knife from her when she had wanted to cut the roast beef.

Aideen was missing. She did not answer her mobile, her parents had put her on the train on time and didn't know where she was either. Maybe, he tried to reason, the battery on her mobile had run low or she was in one of those noisy cafés and didn't hear her mobile. But that was exactly what worried him. It wasn't like Aideen to have her battery run low. It wasn't like her to get on the train and not to have arrived where she was meant to be three or four hours later. Not that he knew her well but he knew her well enough to know that this was uncharacteristic.

"Someone has to go to town and check on her flat," he said suddenly, and knew, looking at those two being even more worried than he was, that it would have to be him.

.


	43. Explicature

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The term _explicature _arose within relevance theory, as a partner to the more familiar_ implicature._ Although it is related to the Gricean notion of 'what is said,' it also departs significantly from it. While the Gricean notion is often thought of as a semantic construct, explicature plainly is not. It belongs to a theory of communication and interpretation, and it is distinguished from most uses of the term 'what is said,' in that it involves a considerable component of pragmatically derived meaning, in addition to linguistically encoded meaning. A key feature in the derivation of an explicature is that it may require 'free' enrichment: this is, the incorporation of conceptual material that is wholly pragmatically inferred, on the basis of considerations of rational communicative behaviour, as these are conceived of on the relevance-theoretic account of human cognitive functioning. _

_(Carston, 2004)_

.

"You can stop screaming now," a voice said. It was a neutral voice, much like those used on answering machines if you didn't record your own message, or those on other machines. It was a female voice, yes, but sounded like a thousands she had heard before. Nothing significant about the voice, clear, standard, BBC English, a little less posh than HMQ's, a little more posh than EastEnders. Just like any other voice. No Manc accent, no Scouse, no Geordie, no Welsh, no Irish lilt, no Scottish brogue. It was just...normal. And reverberated on the bare walls.

Aideen pushed herself closer in the one corner she had been able to find when a bit of light fell into that – room – she was sat in. The light fell on the damp, wet flagstones and a shadow was cast by a figure. Probably the figure who had spoken but she couldn't see. She felt first a bit blinded by the little light that fell in, and then, when she thought she could make out shapes again, and see clearer, the figure turned out to be a person, that much was clear, in a long coat or a cloak with a hood drawn over their eyes. Average height, average figure, nothing distinguished. Everything seemed so nondescript or maybe it was her, being locked in that dark, damp – room – and everything which wasn't dark was average.

"Where am I?" croaked Aideen, her voice hoarse from screaming and shouting for help.

"For the time being," the nondescript voice said slowly, "safe. But eat your soup or you will be made to eat it."

"Why am I here?" she asked but the light vanished for a moment, then a torch was lit on the wall opposite to where she was sat. A single torch, casting orange light on her – cell.

.

Nowhere. He had walked from the train station down to the university, to where Aideen was living. He had even taken a look into the room, had walked back, checked in all the places one could get coffee. She was nowhere and when he had seen someone who seemed fairly familiar as someone who usually surrounded Aideen crossing Piccadilly Gardens, he had followed her and had asked her. And even her, whose name Severus could not remember but who was indeed a friend of Aideen's, hadn't heard a word from her.

It was all rather – worrying. And somehow – strange.

There had been the attack on him (which had turned out to be a kind of blessing in disguise, anyway), then Lucius...and...if someone wanted to hurt Draco without actually touching him and if someone wanted to...

What, he wondered as he took the bus home, if this was all the same person? One person who wanted to see...wait, there had been – first, his own magic that had been taken.

Then Lucius, under the Imperius had tried to hurt Eleanor, who was, indubitably, close to him.

Then Aideen, who was connected to him through Eleanor, who helped with laptop problems of all kinds, and who was connected to him through his godson, vanished.

All of these three incidents were more or less directly linked with him. All of these incidents could be meant to hurt him.

The first one, well, naturally.

Eleanor who was defenceless, Aideen who was defenceless, and both dear to him. What if, he pondered, it had nothing to do with Draco but with him? He had seen Aideen in London. Aideen could be seen at his house and him with her at Eleanor's.

Someone...someone had been watching them, that much was clear. Otherwise it was all a rather strange coincidence and those occurrences together seemed unlikely to be coincidental. Occam's razor. He was targeted. Whoever it was meant to hurt him.

.

Hermione's newly acquired mobile phone rang shrilly just as she was waiting for Ron to appear on their doorstep. Couldn't wait, it seemed, to move in and so Harry had left again to help him get his things. It was curious to say the least that she sat in the room and still listened to them arriving. It didn't matter and she didn't care. Not really.

"Hello?" she answered her new mobile (which was truly pretty), not recognising the number it displayed.

"Miss Granger?"

"Erm, yes?" she asked, unsure who spoke to her on the other line.

"This is Eleanor Callaghan, you remember me? I'm Aideen's grandmother."

"Oh, Mrs Callaghan," gasped Hermione. "Of course I remember you." But – she thought – she would have never expected the older woman to call her. Especially after she had left her house that way. Back when...oh well. A while ago.

"Draco has your number from Aideen and...she doesn't happen to be with you?"

"Aideen?" Hermione frowned. "No, she emailed me this morning that she will be back in Manchester later today and that we should meet up if possible before the term starts."

"Oh," Mrs Callaghan said.

"Why? What's happened?" Hermione's frown grew. Aideen...not there, obviously. And she had left London for sure, had said so in the email.

"She never arrived here and she said she would take the train at...nine-oh-nine, I think."

"Yes, she said nine. Or a bit past nine. But she should have been up there..." she glanced at her watch, "more than four hours ago."

"Yes," Mrs Callaghan sighed, "And she doesn't answer her mobile either, and we're currently ringing all the people who might..."

"Do you think she...do you think something happened?"

"I don't know," her voice was tired and the old lady sounded deeply, deeply worried. And distressed. And almost out of her mind.

There was another soft noise and a click on the other end of the line, then a clearing of a throat. A masculine clearing of a throat. "Granger?" she heard Draco suddenly.

"Draco, hello," she said, slightly bemused. And bewildered. And a bit worried herself.

"Look, we can't find Aideen. She's missing. She wouldn't not answer her phone. It's not like her and we..." he stopped abruptly but Hermione understood. She nodded to herself and began, mobile lodged between ear and shoulder, to dig for some pen and paper, or quill and parchment, on her desk.

"Listen, Draco, I'll be up in about ten minutes. I'm sure she just..." she couldn't finish the sentence. Aideen loved Draco. She would want to rush to him as soon as possible and she would want to see her grandmother, that much Hermione knew. It was not like her to be more than four hours late.

"Erm," Draco Malfoy, former Slytherin prince and almost Death Eater cleared his throat again, but didn't say anything more.

Hermione frowned once more, then coughed softly. She wasn't quite sure whether she was welcome up there, whether Snape would be there but Aideen was her friend as well – and she knew how to help. She knew how to stay calm, or at least appear calm, in situations like that. She was well versed in keeping her head when being confronted with a crisis. "Ten minutes, Draco," she said again. "See you then."

"Erm, yes," Malfoy said and she wasn't sure whether he meant to tell her thank you or meant to tell her to stay away. She didn't care, she could help.

Furiously, she scribbled a note to Harry and put it on the kitchen table, the first place those two boys would no doubt go to, then threw a cardigan over her shoulders and apparated from the doorstep, careful that no Muggles could see her.

She knew it was too early for assumptions – maybe her battery had gone low and maybe she had fallen asleep as soon as she had arrived in her room and couldn't hear her mobile. Maybe she had met some friends and had forgotten the time. So many maybes but...

First Snape, then Malfoy senior, Scabior, now Aideen? Could there be any link between those occurrences? Anything they had in common? Well, attacking former Death Eaters if she left Aideen out – or, if they wanted to hurt Draco through Aideen he was right in the middle. Oh, Goyle senior had been found dead in his cell in Azkaban as well, she remembered from a few months back. But that could have been Azkaban and the rotten circumstances under which prisoners there lived. And that teenager in Knockturn Alley. But that was supposedly a fight between him and some other bloke about a girl.

She landed softly in Mrs Callaghan's garden, unsure why she had apparated straight to that spot but the backdoor was flung open immediately and the older woman, followed by Draco stepped out.

"Thank you for coming, Miss Granger," she said solemnly, her eyes tired and her shoulders sagging.

"I need to help find her. Has someone checked on her room?"

"Severus is there at the moment," Draco said softly.

She had no longing to see him, not really, but there was nothing to be done now. This was a crisis, even if Aideen was only four hours late, those two people were decidedly worried – and that counted as a crisis. But at least now he was gone and he was unlikely to throw her out under such circumstances. But she wasn't so sure about that...

"What if the person who...Draco's father was under a curse when he cursed me...and Severus's...what if it's them?" Mrs Callaghan asked quietly.

"I've been thinking that but for that, they would have to know about the connection between her and Draco," she said slowly, rather surprised that Mrs Callaghan had made the same assumption. "Did someone watch you?"

He shook his head, then his eyes grew colder. "Do you think I wouldn't notice if someone was watching me? My godfather was one of the greatest spies the...they have ever seen. And I picked up a thing or two from him. Apart from the fact that I am a Slytherin and used to watch my step."

Hermione sighed. Her mind was, for the moment, almost blank and she needed, no, she had to sit down and focus her thoughts. Maybe make a list, or a graph. Or...something.

.

The – room – was a cell. It had no window, only four walls and something that looked like a stone-door. Barely different from the walls apart from what looked like a tiny window on the top, which could be opened and closed and had little bars on it. At that moment, it was closed and only the torch set light on the cell.

Maybe 40 ft². Maybe a little more. Not much bigger. Four walls and they seemed to be alive in the light of the torch. They seemed, from time to time, to close in on her until she closed her eyes and screamed or, alternately, tried to control her breathing.

She was in a cell. Had nothing on her. No mobile, no nothing. Only the clothes on her body and those were cold and damp by now as well. The bowl of soup stood where she had left it but it was still steaming and seemed hot.

She forced a bit of the musty air into her lungs before she rolled on her front and then up on her hands and knees and crawled, like a baby, towards the bowl of soup. She had no idea how long she had been in this darkness but she was hungry and she was cold.

And – she had no idea where she was and why she had been taken. Or from whom.

.

He knocked on the front door but didn't wait to push it open. He knew he was welcome in Eleanor's house and entered it with the usual familiarity. Or – not quite. He had, most likely, brought this upon them. It was his fault. He had done this. Most likely. It all came down to him.

He entered the kitchen with a sigh. He could beat himself up over it when they had found Aideen. Now was the time for action – not for self-centred and self-pitying thoughts. Even though it was his fault. Most likely.

He almost stumbled over a pair of legs. Not Draco's and certainly not Eleanor's. Legs, encased in jeans. Female, average long legs. With a pair of sandals on feet. Toenails painted in...black. Not Aideen's legs. Eleanor would throw a fit if she painted her toenails black.

His glance rode up the legs, stayed for barely half a second on the t-shirt, and stopped at the face. It was certainly – different. The hair. The hair was different. Shorter, less bushy, darker, wavy, not insanely curly.

"Before you say something, Uncle Severus, I asked her to be here," Draco said quickly, interrupting his observation of Hermione Granger with new hair and his deduction that a mop of hair could change rather a lot about a person. Not that she was beautiful, but she definitely looked less like a school girl now. More adult.

"She's nowhere," he said darkly, ignoring his godson's statement – and, in the end, decided upon ignoring Granger as well. He fixed his eyes on Eleanor and spoke to her. "She wasn't in her room and I met a friend of hers in town and she hasn't heard from her either."

Eleanor rubbed a hand across her face, letting it rest across her eyes. "Where is that girl?" she muttered worriedly.

"Sir, I've been thinking," Granger spoke to him, softly, yes, but determined. Almost the way she had always blurted things out in class.

"That's news," he said sarcastically.

"Uncle Severus, please?" Draco shook his head – or so it looked like from the corner of his eyes since his eyes were now on Granger again.

She arched her eyebrows and sighed. "I'm here because I'm worried," she said steadily, "And because Aideen is my friend. And I have been _thinking_ that there might be wizards behind this."

"I've had the same thought, Severus," Eleanor nodded.

"You, then Draco's father, Goyle senior was found dead in Azkaban and nobody bothered to do an autopsy, Scabior, then what was his name...Oh, I think Reginald Bale, dead in Knockturn Alley, now Aideen who's with Draco..."

"Scabior?" Severus asked, his eyes widening a fraction, "Salvatore Scabior?"

Granger nodded. "You know him?"

"The Snatcher? The one who..."

"He was amongst those who found us, yes, but he was working legally again, they let him out."

"Scabior?" he asked again, then pulled his lower lip between his teeth, chewing on it. "What happened to him?"

"Imperiused to Avada himself," she said quietly.

"That's possible?" Draco asked.

Severus nodded. It was. But not often used since it was boring, for some people, to watch. It was quick, it was painless, it was...well. Murder without murder. Scabior had no connection to him. And Reginald Bale had been a Hufflepuff in his fifth year when he had taught him last. Both had absolutely no connections to him.

Maybe it wasn't about him. Maybe this was...

He blinked rapidly, then looked at Granger again, then at Eleanor, and at Draco. He had a vague idea but...it couldn't be. It really couldn't be.

Him, Goyle, Lucius, Scabior, Draco...

It couldn't be. It couldn't be.

.


	44. Transactional Function

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_There is a major function of language, the transactional function, whereby humans use their linguistic abilities to communicate knowledge, skill and information. It is unfortunate that we tend to imagine our cave-dwelling ancestors solely as hairy, grunting, bonechewing individuals who mugged their mates, when a lot of that grunting may actually have been in the form of messages informing the junior caveboys and girls on the best way to hold the bones while chewing. The transactional function must have developed, in part, for the transfer of language from one generation to the next. This transfer function of language remains fairly restricted in time and space as long as it can only be realised in speech. By its nature, speech is transient. The desire for a more permanent record of what was known must have been the primary motivation for the development of markings and inscriptions and, eventually, of written language. _

(Yule, 1995)

.

Hermione stared. Obviously Snape had just thought of something, something she was missing, naturally. She couldn't see any connection apart from, well, Death-Eater-Snatcher-Voldemort. But a fair few people were out there who disliked Death-Eater-Snatcher-Voldemort and who had reason, more or less, to take revenge. And if this was about Draco...if it was about Draco. She hadn't even considered the possibility, so far, that there was something else involved.

But, it could have just been...something else. A coincidence. Someone taking her just...randomly. No, that thought was too terrible. If it had something to do with Draco and the entire Death-Eater-Snatcher-Voldemort-thing, they had something to go on. They had clues – if it was random, they had nothing, absolutely nothing.

Snape looked peculiar though and she seemed to be the only one noticing it. Mrs Callaghan, as well as Draco stared into thin air, into nothingness and seemed far, far away in their thoughts. But she hadn't apparated up North just to stare at those two worrying.

"Pr..erm, Mr Snape?" she asked carefully, looking at him and for a moment, considered giving him her teacup. He looked a little...weirded out. A little strange. Had never seen him like this at school. At school, no matter what happened, he had always looked to be in control. The only time she had seen him out of control was in the Shrieking Shack and – those were rather different circumstances. Now he didn't look as bad but he seemed – shocked. Or surprised. Only for a moment, only until she opened her mouth though, then his face fell into the mask, the visage she remembered from Hogwarts.

"Miss Granger," he replied evenly, looking in her eyes.

"Do you have, erm, an idea? I mean..."

His eyes seemed to search for something in hers, then opened his mouth as if he was preparing to say something – then closed it again. She frowned.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Nothing," he replied coldly. "Are there..." he seemed to think for a moment, "any more strange incidents?"

Hermione shook her head, glad, somehow, that he asked her that. "Not that I know of but I would have to ask the Minister, or Ha..erm, would have to make enquiries into it." She wasn't sure whether it was wise to mention Harry at all but he didn't seem to mind.

"Mr Potter still is in Auror training?"

She shook her head. "He had reasons to give it up...he's playing Quidditch now."

He smirked. He actually smirked. Despite the situation and despite the gloom surrounding them, he smirked and nodded slightly and her frown grew.

She drew a deep breath and decided to give him information, thinking that if she gave him something, he would give her something. "You know," she began softly, trying not to bother those two lost in thought, "that Malfoy's Imperius was cast with Bellatrix Lestrange's wand? And they suspect the one on Hestia Jones as well but they don't know. Scabior was Imperiused with hers as well."

"What?" he spluttered, apparently before he could stop himself.

"Bellatrix Lestrange's wand," she nodded, "it is in the Ministry and nobody knows who took it. It apparently comes and goes. And while there is a log..."

"Whoever takes it would not sign their name;" he growled, "Why don't they snap it? Or snapped it right from the start? They snapped mi..."

Hermione was surprised. Anger. And it was true – why hadn't they just snapped the wand? Maybe not right after they had won the war, maybe it would have been wise to do so though, after Malfoy had been Imperiused. Stupid Ministry. Whatever they thought or if they thought at all. She could only shrug.

"I don't know whether they're thinking at all," she mumbled but he seemed to have heard her and arched his eyebrows – and, oddly enough, the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was close to smiling. Or smirking again. Was amused by her comment.

"But it is her wand for sure?" he asked, catching himself and bringing his eyebrows back to their normal, regular position.

She nodded again. "Yes. The one she used in the Final Battle," she said, then closed her eyes. Was it okay, she wondered, to mention that? She desperately didn't want to offend him, not now when he had obviously an idea. Not now when he talked to her like this, more or less like he was taking her seriously. When she had information that he wanted, or needed. Not now. Now she had to be careful. "I mean...I, erm..."

"The mahogany wand with the dragon heart-string?" he asked, his eyebrows arched again.

She nodded, "I think so."

"Interesting," he muttered.

"What is?"

He shook his head and said nothing.

.

It added up. Somehow, in his mind, it added up. Of course, naturally, it was only a suspicion. She certainly had unfinished business with him. And with Lucius even more so. With Scabior. Goyle? He wasn't sure about that and the youth? Unlikely but those could be coincidences. Additionally Bellatrix Lestrange's wand and – Draco. Aideen.

He suppressed the gasp. If it was her – if his suspicions were correct – unthinkable. The entire Wizarding World would be put upside down, it would all be topsy-turvy. What was right would be wrong. Light would be Dark. If he was correct in his assumptions...if he was right, the martyr would have morphed into the killer. The victim into the perpetrator.

He was so lost in thought, trying to connect the dots, trying to make sense of it, trying to make everything fit into his theory that he didn't notice he was staring at Granger still.

But – if she hadn't mentioned Salvatore Scabior, poor soul – he would have never made the connection. At first, his money had been on Narcissa Malfoy. Then on Regina Parkinson, Pansy's mother who hated both him and Lucius to no end. But this? Salvatore Scabior. He nodded to himself, and focused his eyes on Granger.

Both Draco and Eleanor were useless at the moment. Weak and helpless and she at least, that much he would have to admit, had kept her head so far. And usually had during her time at Hogwarts. A brief image of her conjuring a glass vial in the Shrieking Shack appeared in front of his inner eye and he pushed it away impatiently before he could focus on it.

She cleared her throat and got up from her chair, standing in front of him and looking up at him. She had to look up as well, the top of her head barely reaching his own chin. "Mr Snape?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "I need to use my computer," he said.

"Erm, do you know, I mean, we could...try...I mean, is there a spell or something? Potion?"

He groaned loudly. "Miss Granger..." he said threateningly.

"I'm sorry, I just thought it would be helpful to, well, locate her."

"And you with your extensive reading, have you ever come across a spell which can locate people? Do you think you would have survived half an hour in that bloody forest if there had been such a spell, such a potion? Use your head, Granger!"

She clenched her hand in front of her stomach and nodded slowly. "But your computer?"

"There are some things you cannot find out with magic," he sneered.

She frowned, still looking up at him. If she continued that, she would have a stiff neck soon. Would be fitting, he thought. "I trust you to keep an eye on those two and not to do any..."

"I want to help," she interrupted. "I can use a computer and I can help. I want to find Aideen. She's my friend," she continued, determined, a little line appearing between her eyebrows.

He measured her with his eyes. What he had was a serious accusation to an otherwise upstanding citizen of the Wizarding World – and he didn't trust her with that information. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and shook his head. "You will help most if you make sure that those two are reassured."

"But you can't do any magic," she blurted.

It didn't take him even half a second to phrase his answer to this. "As I am well aware of," his voice was cutting, snide, cold. He turned around, left her standing with her head bent back, looking up into air and with a quick word to Eleanor, he left the house. He had a plan to make, he had to find an address, he had to locate a person, he had to find Aideen and he had to figure out how to get her out from where he expected her to be without actually using magic.

Mace and a rope might be helpful.

.

"This is not going to be pleasant but as means to an end, we need to do this," the female, nondescript voice said.

Aideen had pushed herself back into the corner. The soup had tasted watery and a little bit like lead. Not that she had ever tasted lead, but she imagine it to taste this way – and it had left her aching inside. A pain in her lower abdomen she usually experienced once a month. There was no bleeding though and she was glad about that – at least one thing.

She couldn't tell how long she had been in that relative darkness, the torch shedding a bit of light, after she had drunk the soup. She had tried counting, but that had felt when she had reach about two thousand three hundred and seventy-five. Could have been a day, or only an hour.

Pushing the fear aside, that was what she tried hard to do and failed. She didn't want to die. She was eighteen. People didn't die in damp cellars with eighteen. Well, some did but she had never thought she would be one of them. She hadn't thought she wouldn't ever see Draco again, or grumbling Severus, or smiling and hugging Gran. She wanted her mother and her father and her siblings and Draco and Severus and her gran. She wanted to see her friends from Uni and even Dr Dorfmann, the mean German anatomy professor. She wanted to see all of them. She didn't want to die in that damp cellar. She didn't want to die.

But she was dying. That was, she thought, why that woman had come again. The light flickered and Aideen closed her eyes. She bit her lip, hard, didn't want to die like this. Not without saying good bye. Tears began streaming down her face and she heard her own sobs echo on the bare walls.

"Oh, calm down," the voice said. Voice without a visible body. There was something, yes, but it was more of a blob in dark clothing and a hood that covered the entire face. How that person could see, Aideen didn't know and Aideen didn't care.

"I don' wanna die," she sobbed. "Please, let me go. I haven't done anything. I wanna go home, please. Let me go."

"Soon, girl, soon you'll be able to go. But not yet. Now, you have a job to do," the voice said and before Aideen could think, before Aideen could react, there was a piercing pain in her arm, on her wrist, her fingers, her elbow, up to her shoulder and it felt...it hurt. It just hurt. She cradled her arm and felt warm, sticky liquid on her good, left hand. It was bleeding. She tried to make out her arm, and a second later, there was the briefest, brightest light she had ever seen. Almost like the flash of a camera. It wasn't enough to see completely what had happened to her arm but it hurt and it looked twisted and it felt twisted and there was some blood. Not much blood but enough to make her scream.

"Eat your soup," the voice said, barely registering in Aideen's brain and as the door clicked shut, the torch on the wall went out as well and she sat in darkness, the only sound she could hear her own laboured, hitching breathing, and her pain-induced whimpers.

.

Hermione fumed – then made tea for Mrs Callaghan and Draco, who talked softly about anything but Aideen even if she knew, and even if both of them knew that it was the only thing on their minds. On all their minds.

Snape had made a connection in his mind that she hadn't seen and she went through their conversation in her head again and again. He had started to look strange as soon as she had mentioned that Snatcher. A lot of people had been hurt by those, caught by those especially Muggleborns on the run, and others on the run. Malfoy, Snatchers, Snape, Goyle, the young man. Malfoy, Snatchers, Snape, Goyle.

The Snatchers. He had begun to look astonished by the time they had come up.

Some dots in her head connected suddenly.

Oh, but it couldn't be – he couldn't think that, could he? Not seriously. He couldn't...no. That was absurd. She wouldn't do something like that. She wouldn't hurt Muggles, she wouldn't use Unforgivables. Not her. She shook her head to herself and decided, for the moment, not to dwell on it. She would talk with Mrs Callaghan and Draco. And in a little while, she would go over to Snape's house and would listen to him talk instead of only talking to him. She would apologise and would try to be a bit sneakier about getting answers. He couldn't think it was her. It couldn't have been her. She couldn't be behind all this.

She smiled encouragingly at Mrs Callaghan, then at Draco and sipped her tea – and couldn't stop her mind from thinking about her suspicion.

.

Severus took another deep breath. He had an address. He had a name. He had absolutely no evidence but she was the one who made most sense. And even if she hadn't been it – she wouldn't be a bad person to just ask. Nobody could possibly blame him to try and find out what had happened to his neighbour's granddaughter and to his godson's girlfriend. If he could find no trace of Aideen being there, being held there, he could still think about the possibility that the Wizarding World had nothing to do with her disappearance.

But he had to do something. He had to catch the train, he had to go and look for her. Nobody could blame him. He would just say, if he didn't find any trace of Aideen, that he had come to...apologise. He would spin the tale of the contrite former spy, who was trying to atone for the sins committed to apologise to everyone he had ever in any way, shape or form, wronged. And he had, without doubt, wronged her and her entire family. Her daughter, her son-in-law, her husband, her sisters.

It made sense. He had been the first because he had pretended to be something he hadn't been. He had let her family down when they had trusted him. That would most definitely work.

Severus took his leather jacket – it would be cold as soon as the sun set – and left his house, the bit of paper on which he had written down the address in the back pocket of his jeans. There was a name on top of that bit of paper, above the address, a, he thought, boring old house, in a boring old Muggle area. Living in a Muggle house and still not hesitating to use Muggles to reach her goal.

He just hoped that he was right. He would hate to play the contrite, sorry man who begged for forgiveness. She wasn't the one to give it to him, nobody but himself had to forgive him. Nobody else counted. But he would pretend if he had to.

He strode quickly to the bus, knowing he would get the train, knowing the train would take him to where he thought Aideen was. If he was wrong, if those genes didn't come through...no, he didn't want to think about that.

Those genes had to come through, she had to be the one. She was the one being hurt by him, by the Malfoys, by Salvatore Scabior and by every other Death Eater, dead or alive. She was the one who had lost – most.

.


	45. Deixis

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Some sentences of English are virtually impossible to understand if we don't know who is speaking, about whom, where and when. For example:_ You'll have to bring that back tomorrow, because they aren't here now.

_Out of context, this sentence is extremely vague. It contains a large number of expressions_ (you, that, tomorrow, they, here, now) _which depend for their interpretation on the immediate physical context in which they were uttered. Suck expressions are very obvious examples of bits of language which we can only understand in terms of speaker's intended meaning. These are technically known as deictic expressions, from the Greek word deixis (pronounced day-icksis), which means 'pointing' via language._

(Yule, 1995)

.

Severus knew he needed the moment of surprise on his side. He thought, briefly, as he stepped along the road, the collar of his leather jacket pulled up and his face down, that it would have been worse to have his memory taken instead of his magic. This way, well, he had a can of pepper-spray in his pocket, found in the cellar and not thrown out and it still seemed to work and he could, if there was the slightest indication of a wand drawn, the slightest indication that Aideen was there, use it. Without hesitation. Not that he expected to see any direct clue that Aideen was there but he had learned to read body language and people said a lot of things with pepper-spray in their eyes and ropes around their bodies, tied to something.

He wasn't rushing into this like some Gryffindor. He would talk to her, calmly. He probably, officially, shouldn't even know Aideen was missing. He could say he had been touring all day long and had talked to some people and had apologised to the majority of people and he would take a look around. If she started on him, the pepper-spray would come out but only then.

He straightened his back as he arrived in front of the semi-detached and he took a deep breath before he rang the doorbell. A typical Muggle semi-detached. Nothing special. So normal. Well, it would be.

There were footsteps inside and – crying. Severus frowned, then remembered. Of course. The pup. He had forgotten about that.

A young woman opened the door swiftly and he could just see her wand disappearing in her pocket before she looked up at him – she was even smaller than Granger – the child on her arm. He was now about – eighteen months? Around that anyway.

"'ello?" she asked in a French accent, dimples showing as she smiled at him. The child cried violently, his hair probably forcedly kept one colour. There was a shimmering over something else in the corner, laying there as if thrown there but he couldn't focus on it yet. But, for all intents and purposes, he realised now that he wasn't a Muggle. He was a Squib. Not that it mattered usually – but he could see a badly cast Disillusionment Charm.

"Hello," Severus said, forcing a smile on his face as well. "Mrs Tonks?"

The girl shook her head. "I'm her au-pair from France and I'm watching little Teddy," she smiled and stroked the crying boy's back. "Can I do something for you?"

He wished he hadn't worn the leather jacket – but at the same time, maybe, maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe it was just the right thing to wear. "Do you have a little time? I would like to tell you about a way to benefit in life."

The girl, she couldn't be older than seventeen, probably straight out of Beauxbaton, stared at him. It had worked. "Sorry, sir?"

The shimmering of the Disillusionment Charm weakened. It was a bag. It looked like...oh but she wouldn't be so stupid as to just throw Aideen's bag in her own hall. There would be plenty of those bags around. But the Disillusionment Charm. It was all a bit strange. He didn't know the girl either, not a face he remembered and he had a rather good memory when it came to people. Definitely not Fleur Delacour's sister. That girl had dark hair and was shorter and stockier. But the boy stopped crying and looked at him curiously.

"There is a way for you to better your life. Has anyone talked to you about Jesus before?" he replied, "Jesus can help you with your life and with his way, not only this life will be wonderful but the next as well."

The girl looked at him rather curiously, then her smile broadened. "Je ne comprends pas," she mumbled – thinking probably he didn't understand basic French, "Mme Tonks n'est pas ici et est à sa vieille maison de famille. Et elle ne veut pas que je parle à un étranger," she smiled and banged the door in his face.

Severus frowned, then walked away briskly, allowing himself a small smile. That girl obviously seriously considered him a Jehova's witness. One of the nasty kind who came ringing and talking randomly to people. And she considered him stupid enough to not understand that bit of French she had mumbled. That bag – and the fact that Andromeda Tonks was not in but ...sa vieille maison de famille. Grimmauld Place? No, that couldn't be it. Was there...

He would have to get home and hope that that French babysitter wouldn't tell her immediately what he looked like. Even if he had plastered his hair to his head and even if he did not wear any kind of Wizarding clothes. Even if he wasn't pale anymore.

And only because he didn't know of any other Black-family home other than Grimmauld Place didn't mean he couldn't find out. He would just have to...well, trust.

.

It was just as well that she had left Mrs Callaghan's house late and returned back to Manchester early again. She hadn't even caught a glimpse of Ron and had, once more, only left a note. Draco had probably not slept at all and neither had Mrs Callaghan. She hadn't slept much either, worried about her friend and, while she was hesitant to admit, worried about Snape as well. He had, it had looked that way at least, stormed off like a Gryffindor, without a plan, and without the backup of any kind of magic. It was insane and she knew, even if it would have cost her her head, that she should have followed him. He was probably in danger, or whoever he thought was behind this, had caught him as well.

And so, after her apparition, she didn't ring Mrs Callaghan's doorbell, but Snape's. And she rang a long time. She kept her finger on the buzzer and rang. And rang. She only stopped when she heard footsteps inside and barely a second later, the door was pulled open viciously and Snape glared at her, his hair hanging in his eyes and his feet in socks and in jeans and a t-shirt.

"What happened?" she asked immediately and looked up at him. She had to put her head almost entirely back, resting it almost on her the back of her neck to see in his face if she stood that close. He looked a little pale and there were dark circles around his eyes even if they were nothing compared to those he had sported when she had seen him at Hogwarts. Stubble on his face. "Didn't you sleep?"

He rolled his eyes and opened his door. "Come in, Granger," he said suddenly and even though she was utterly surprised by this, her feet carried her inside and he closed the door with a click.

"Did you..." she bit her lip and rushed after him as he strode into the living room.

"Did I what?" he asked, sitting on a chair at a table, a map of Britain in front of him.

"It was Andromeda Tonks, right?" she blurted out, unable to contain herself any longer.

He arched his eyebrows, leant over the map on his elbows and looked at her inquisitively. "May I ask how you reached that conclusion?"

Hermione blushed under his obvious scrutiny. "Erm, well, you see..."

"Take a seat and we don't have forever," he snapped pointing at a chair opposite him. She nodded and sat down quickly.

"Well?" he asked.

"You looked kind of strange when I mentioned Salvatore Scabior and then the dots sort of connected in my head, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I don't know what, erm, you did to make her hate you but it was clear with the two Malfoys. I mean the way I see it," she took a deep breath, "they brought shame to the, well, family name. In inverted commas. And they brought nothing but bad luck over her sister. That would make sense. I mean, the way I've seen it, family is important and even if Andromeda and Narcissa were sort of estranged, she would still want to take revenge, in a way. And she's lost a lot. And it was all connected to her family. I mean Bellatrix. Besides, the wand would connect to her more easily if she was the sister," she ran out of steam by then and only looked at him, then as he seemed to size her up again, her eyes were drawn to the map.

"Yes," he only said.

"Yes?"

"That's what I just said, isn't it?"

"So you think it's was her too?"

He took a deep, almost growling breath, then said, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Granger. Do I have to repeat everything?" he snarled, glaring at her.

"No, sorry," she shook her head. "I'm just...you know, surprised that you'd tell me. Did you go to see her? Did she...are you sure? I mean how do you know? I was just speculating and – you really think so to?"

"Do you know of any other family homes of the Blacks apart from Grimmauld Place?" he interrupted her, not answering her questions.

She knew her mouth was hanging open and she knew she must have looked quite a sight staring stunned like that. But it really shouldn't have made him chuckle evilly and that he did. Her look of surprise then, naturally, only grew.

"Close your mouth, Granger. Do you?"

"What do you know?" she asked when she found her voice again. "Do you think Aideen is there?"

"As far as I know she hasn't returned, has she?"

"How do you know...I mean, I'm confused."

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, another lock falling into his eyes again, obscuring her view of him but he seemed to just look at her. After a full minute or more, he took another deep breath and after a sigh, he began to speak, softly and slowly, as if she was too dimwitted to understand if he spoke too quickly. "I am telling you this because I believe that Aideen is important to you," he raised his hand when she had already opened her mouth to interrupt and she stopped herself immediately. "I doubt you have told Potter where you are and what you do. And if it isn't the case, you will leave now and I will not continue speaking." She remained where she was, didn't move a muscle and waited for him to continue. Why he was telling her this now, why he seemed to begin to trust her, she didn't know. "Good. You should know that I have ways of destroying you without magic. Do not forget that, Granger."

She nodded and remained, for once, silent. She wanted him to trust her, to include her in his plans, wanted to help him get Aideen back, get her out from wherever he thought she was.

"Good. Now I need to know whether you know of any ancestral homes of the Black family. Or, if you do not, I'm sure there will be a book in the library at Grimmauld Place or any documents which will..."

"There is one," she couldn't help to say.

"Then get it and I will tell you the rest."

She stared at him open-mouthed again and didn't know what to say exactly.

"Granger! Go, the sooner you get it, the sooner you will get information."

She nodded, impressed by how he was acting and, waiting only for the nod he was quick to give, she apparated back home, back to Grimmauld Place and, carefully listening whether the boys were up, whether there was any kind of chatter, she tore up to the library. She couldn't hear a thing but then again, it was only six thirty in the morning and they would probably sleep in. There was a thick book she remembered from her perusals, full of handwritten documents about property, about everything, houses, mansions, jewellery, money, even house elves. It was all in the one heavy book and she grabbed it, tucked it tightly under her arm and apparated straight to Spinner's End again. She wasn't so impolite as to apparate straight back into the house but on the doorstep and she only had to knock once before the door opened once more.

"And?" he asked, his eyebrows arched.

Hermione panted and held the book out to him but snatched it back when he wanted to take hold of it. "Only if you tell me how you know."

Rolling his eyes, he nodded and in a swift move, had taken the book from her, leaving her standing in the hall and rushing into the living room, probably back to the map.

"Mr Snape!" she cried, outraged. "We had a bargain."

"Never made bargains with Slytherins," she heard him mumbling but this time, she wasn't to be turned away and instead, followed him, putting her hands on the book he had lain on the table.

"Granger," he groaned. "Let me get on with it or do you want to risk Aideen's life?"

"I want to help," she said forcefully. "And I can help. You know that I can help."

"Sit," he snapped. "Do not talk, do try to be quiet for once in your life."

She huffed but sat down, trying to read what he was reading upside down, trying to make light of all this.

.

He wasn't sure how much to tell her or if to tell her anything at all. She had brought him what he needed, he, together with that idiotic French babysitter who had hopefully not described him too closely, handed him Aideen's location, or where he suspected her to be on a silver platter. He didn't need Granger's backup but he could see, despite everything, that she did want to help. It was clear and she had, almost with no hesitation, brought him the Black family estate recordings. He would only have to mark those that were still left, those that hadn't been sold, those that were uninhabited. It shouldn't be too many, and he would be able to...well, it would be simpler to have access to recent records and he couldn't get his hands on. And if he...no, that was magic. He would beat them all without magic. He would prove that it could be done without magic. Even magical means of transportation and he wouldn't sink so low as to ask her for a side-along apparition. But in the end, she had obeyed almost immediately. And she wouldn't have brought him that book if she didn't think he would trust her. She had made the basic mistake of any non-Slytherin but she was young, she could learn. And if he didn't give her anything in return, she would rather turn to Potter – but that she could still do if he failed, if it wasn't Andromeda Tonks. She had thought of her on her own.

He looked at her once more, raised his eyebrows when he noticed her trying to read the handwriting in the heavy tome and her eyes seemed a little crossed.

"Her babysitter gave that bit of information away," he said quietly, amused by how her eyes snapped up to his immediately.

"You went to her house?" she asked voicelessly.

"Do you think I was on an outing?"

"No, I just...she has a wand!"

"And I have two hands and brain between my ears," he hissed.

"Yes, but she..."

"Granger, if you think I cannot handle a half-baked witch such as Andromeda Tonks who is not even able to cast an Avada herself, you're very much mistaken and you can leave this second."

Annoying woman. Did obviously think she was better than him, did obviously believe that all witches and wizards were better than him with his magic taken. He was still superior to most of them, even if he only had a can of pepper-spray and a rope, or, if worst came to worst, his two hands.

"No, I mean, but you...you must have had a plan."

He actually snorted at that. Couldn't hold back and only looked at her again. "What do you think?" he asked asked mockingly.

"Of course but...would you tell me?"

"You can help with this map and their estates. Now, Granger," he gestured towards the chair next to him. "Mark those who have been sold with red pins and those who are not marked as sold with green pins."

She obeyed. She just obeyed and moved to sit beside him, asking no questions anymore, and just going through the book with him, her taking the pages on the left side, him taking those on the right side.

.


	46. Second Language Acquisition

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_While it is true that many young children whose parents speak different languages can acquire a second language in circumstances similar to those of first language acquisition, the vast majority of people are not exposed to a second language until much later. Moreover, for most people, the ability to use their first language is rarely matched, even after years of study, by a comparable ability in the second language. There is something of an enigma here, since there is apparently no other system of 'knowledge' which one can 'learn' better at two or three years old than at fifteen or twenty-five. _

(Yule, 1995)

.

Hermione sat and put on red pin after red pin on the map. It seemed to her that the Blacks had at one time made their money by acquiring and then selling estates. Or maybe that was just the way of the Wizarding World back then. She had to admit that she didn't like it not knowing but Wizarding History had always been considered less important, somehow, except of course the history of Hogwarts, which she knew almost by heart these days. Useless knowledge in this instance. Hogwarts seemed a world apart, was a world apart from the rest of the Wizarding World. The beacon of learning, the metaphorical academic ivory tower in the United Kingdom. Students came, students went smarter, more educated or maybe just older and more able to wave a wand, or to brew a potion or to solve Arithmetic puzzles. But Hogwarts, she understood that little by little now and while her understanding had begun much sooner, it had never been as clear as it was now, was different, it wasn't incorporated into the other part of the Wizarding World. Parents were rarely invited to go, Muggleborns could never show their parents their school, her own parents only knew from drawings and pictures what her home for six years had looked like. They had never seen what her dormitory had looked like, her bed, her...everything that had been dear to her. They had been completely shut out. No parents' day, no parent-teacher-meetings, nothing. As far as her parents had been concerned, she could have just as well lived on the North Pole for those six years.

She had usually pushed that thought away when she had it before. It depressed her and it made her feel guilty. She had never tried to make her parents more part of her life. She had never let Harry or Ron into her life at home, in Kent, with her parents. She had always gone alone and had tried, as best as she had been able to, to keep her two parts separate. Rather schizophrenic.

And on the pretence of caring for them, or worrying about them, she had played God. She had used her wand like a gavel and had condemned her parents to forgetting and to living in a penal colony. Well, former penal colony. She had put herself into a superior position because she had that possibility. Because she thought she knew what was best for her parents. Her parents. Those people she should have respected, should have sat down with them, should have discussed it and should have talked to the Order. The Creeveys had been protected by the Order and they now lived as the Creeveys in the Lake District. Her parents still had their old names and lived in Australia. Her fault. Just because she had thought she had been better, had known better. A wrong sense of protection, maybe. Or maybe a thought that only she could judge the situation correctly, that she only knew how dangerous is was and that her parents had been too uninformed to give their consent to any other form of protection. And their being uninformed had been her fault and her fault alone. She had played it down, she had pretended it 'wasn't so bad', that it 'wasn't dangerous as the Daily Prophet had stated'. She had presumed she had known best.

And maybe she had, but the Creeveys had a pub in that Lake District and her parents were on the other side of the world.

If she had acted like Colin (not the getting killed part, naturally) and had taken tens of thousands of pictures, if she had brought them all home, if she had shown her parents every aspect of her life at Hogwarts, instead of pretending to be the good Muggle daughter, she would have, maybe, been able to help them in another way, not making decisions without their knowledge.

Oh, but she was getting maudlin and there was a task to tackle. They had to find Aideen and her red pin which she had been about to stick near Reading, hovered in mid-air and Snape glared at her. She sent an apologetic smile and stuck it in as he turned the page of the book.

This was still definitely different from what she had known about wizards. They had made a lot of money, even selling houses to Muggles. Of course those houses had been sold at horrendous prices and mostly, probably, with a resident ghost or ghoul, but they had interacted with Muggles. Or had their solicitors deal with them. She didn't know, didn't know at all and it bothered her.

What had they learned in Hogwarts? Practical uses of magic and of course, all about the goblin-wars. But how to make a living, how to find a job, apart from those purely academic ones, or those that seemed to be needed every day, a Healer, or a job at the Ministry or at Gringotts, or a shopkeeper. So limited. She didn't want to be a Healer, she had seen enough wounded, enough dead, enough mangled, wrangled bodies in her entire lifetime, enough spells gone wrong. She didn't want to work for the Ministry, those were a bunch of idiots, the goblins still sort of hated her, a shopkeeper? With her lack of social skills?

She knew she was leaving one academic ivory tower for another. Studying maths wasn't what you might call practical but it was an opportunity away from Healers, Ministry-slaves, shopkeepers, goblins.

Still, Hogwarts. It had seemed like such a safe place, like a light in the dark, a safe ivory tower. But what was going on in the inside, she didn't know. She had worshipped it as a place where she could learn, where she could stretch her intellectual legs, and for the first time in her life, made friends. But she hadn't looked deeper. She had just accepted things. Hogwarts as being representative of the Wizarding World and the people in it as those willing to share their accumulated knowledge. But in their own way, most of them were just as stuck in that academic ivory tower of teaching and learning as she had been.

Not necessarily Professor McGonagall, definitely not Professor Dumbledore and most certainly not Professor Snape, but the rest? Professor Sprout had constantly sprouted stuff about plants, Trelawney had made her wanna-be predictions – or maybe that had been the way they had wanted to be seen. As not having personal interests, as not being anything other than experts (not Trelawney) in their field. Of course as teachers, they would.

But she hadn't shown one ounce of interest in them. And if she had...

A pin hovered in mid-air again and she was quick to put it in, not smiling at him this time but keeping her eyes on the book and the map.

He was the biggest enigma even if he had never been seen this way at Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, he had his role to fulfil. He had been easy to put be pigeon-holed and be kept there. The surly, unfair teacher, the one who had no private life and spent his free time patrolling corridors and being unfair to students. No doubt that he had known a lot about his subject but being unable to communicate it with a modicum of gentleness. He had been no mystery at school.

Now – he was an utter mystery. She couldn't make out anything. It was like sitting next to a stranger in a library, having been forced to work on the same book. Well, maybe not quite but she didn't know anything and yet she had presumed, sort of, that she did. But he was a conundrum, really. Being so...mysterious. Now he was sat there, diligently, sticking pin after pin, mostly red but or two green ones into the map of Britain, and from the corner of her eye, she could see that he was absolutely focused on his task, his hands steady, his brow furrowed. She had done as she had been told. She had gone to fetch the book without questioning, well, without really getting answers anyway. She had acted like a good little student who desperately wanted to please her teacher. She had acted like a child when she was fighting so hard to be seen as an adult by most. She had obeyed immediately and had then made the mistake of questioning him at the wrong time. Had put herself, as she had done with her parents, in a superior position. Thought that maybe, he wouldn't be able to get Aideen out alive without his magic.

Honestly speaking, she still didn't think so. Or at least not without backup, not without any kind of help, why the transporta...

Her head snapped up and whipped around to face him where he sat next to her, hunched over the book and the map. She hadn't noticed that their arms had been touching the entire time, she had been deep in thought and him, probably, focused on his work alone.

"How will you get there? I mean, you made it abundantly clear that you intend to do this on your own, but how will you get there?" she calmed herself. It wouldn't do to shout. Reason would win. Reasonable arguments.

He looked up and arched his eyebrow.

"You think Muggle means of transportation?" she asked.

"Obviously," he said in a deep, if slightly annoyed voice.

"You'll lose an awful lot of time," she said, keeping her own voice rather calm, forced herself really to be calm. He would never agree to a Portkey (illegally made, of course, she knew how to after all) or side-along apparition if she put herself into the superior position again. She had to be smarter about this.

"I know what you're getting at, Granger," he snarled and stuck another pin in the map – so forcefully that it was bent in the middle and looked rather...broken. Almost like a miniature gallows with a red round ball stuck to it.

"I'm not getting at anything," she said off-handedly. "I just believe time is of essence and we cannot afford to lose anymore. If we believe that Mrs Tonks has gone 'round the bend, as, I think, we both presume, we cannot know what she does, or already did to Aideen. And the sooner we get to her, the sooner we can get her out," she shrugged. Of course she didn't want to think about what had been done to Aideen or if she was just being kept, or already killed. She pushed the thought away but she had spotted his weakness. He liked Aideen and he wanted to rescue her. Maybe...

Oh.

Maybe as much for her as for him. Maybe he wanted to rescue her for her to be rescued, for her to be saved and sane and alright but maybe...maybe he wanted, needed to rescue her to regain some of the self-worth, self-confidence he had lost when they had taken his magic. Maybe he had to prove this to himself that he still could out-wit anyone, even without magic. Oh. And that would be...but at least the transport. At least having her there with a wand at the ready just in case something went wrong. Not that he would like to be helped by a mere girl – she could understand that but this was bigger than self-esteem. Life was at stake, probably.

He stuck another pin in, a green one this time, then took a green one out and replaced it with a red one. He was silent, but this had already worked better than her forcing her magic on him. That was the way, probably reverse psychology didn't only work on children, maybe it worked on former spies and potion masters as well. Or maybe not and she had just brought a rather valid argument. Which hers was, really.

"Fine," he said after a long while, a while which left their map full of red and only a couple of green dots. "But you will keep back," he said intently, looking at her deeply. "And you will obey me. You will do as I say."

She nodded and even though she had just pledged to obey him, to let him do what he had planned to do, without her knowing what the plan was, she felt less like a student and a little more like an equal. And she could still be there. She could still be a part of this plan and could still help.

.

That dunderhead slip of a girl. That bloody stupid chit. Had brought an argument which was more than valid, more than sane and more than reasonable. And she had known he couldn't possibly refuse that. He had to listen to a reasonable argument. And English trains were mostly not very reasonable and while they probably truly tried to be on time, they never managed. Apparition was quick and almost painless. Even if he had to hold onto her. And if there was the risk of being splinched. He would kill her if she splinched him, if so much as half a toenail was left behind, her would put his hands around her slender, graceful neck and wouldn't loosen his grip until she was still. He could do that without a toenail.

Seriously, the way she sat there, staring at the little illustrations of the mansions and houses and cottages in the book marked green on their map. Always wanting to please, always wanting to do the right thing and then, when he had least expected it, a sane, reasonable argument.

He sighed softly, then resigned himself to his fate. Half a toenail and she would be fertilizer for his garden. Half a toenail.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped, deciding that it might as well be now. He still had the pepper-spray and the rope in his leather jacket and Andromeda, if she was there, would be so surprised to see him that it would be easy to spray this in her eyes before she could draw her wand, to tie her to a chair or anything before she could see again, and to question her before the pepper-spray lost its potency.

"You mean now?" she asked, her mouth hanging open a little, displaying even teeth. A bit stained from too much tea, but otherwise in good shape. Oh, he had made fun of her teeth once, he remembered. Oh, those were the days, really. When he could in good fun make fun of Gryffindors. These days, he had to rely on them for side-along apparition and even if he tried to get Draco to do it, he wouldn't be able to. Poor boy was completely out of his mind with worry and it would take approximately another twenty-four hours before the wish for vengeance set in.

"You did say time was of essence," he smirked, getting up and taking hold of his leather jacket, wrapping himself in it.

"Erm, yes," she nodded, then folded the map neatly. "Where to first then?" she continued, a vicious glimmer in her eyes – triumph? Determination? He couldn't tell.

"Here," he said, unfolding the map again, "White Cottage, just outside of Torquay."

Granger nodded again, raised her elbow a little so he could grasp her arm and he held it rather tightly before she closed her eyes and he closed his eyes and he felt the almost unfamiliar tug on the navel and was spun away.

.


	47. Logical Consequences

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

.

_The general fact, that certain claims follow logically from others, is the central concern of a theory of logical consequence. Logical consequence is just the relation that connects a given claim or set of claims with those things that follow logically from it; to say that B is a logical consequence of A is simply to say that B follows logically from A. All of ordinary reasoning turns on the recognition of this relation. When one notices, for example, that a certain prediction follows from a given theory, that a particular view is a consequence of some initial commitments, that a collection of premises entails a given conclusion, and so on, one is engaged in reasoning about logical consequence._

(Blanchette in Goble, 2001)

.

The long and the short of it was that White Cottage just outside Torquay was not only empty but a ruin. No wonder if was still in possession of the Blacks, Hermione thought. There weren't even four walls anymore, only three. And Aideen, was nowhere to be seen, there weren't even wards around it and she expected that much at least. She hoped, at least, that wherever Aideen had been hidden, wards had been erected. She could undo them and could be useful. Even though Snape probably wouldn't want her to be.

If they found Aideen – it was still possible, she thought, that she hadn't been kidnapped by Andromeda Black, that she was in the hands of some raping Muggle, some raping, killing, insane Muggle. Those things happened and Aideen was a beautiful woman. She was young and she had been on her own, everything could have happened.

She hoped though that Aideen had been taken by Andromeda. It would definitely simplify their search, there were, after all, only three more places she could be hidden, if she had been taken by Mrs Tonks.

But – this wasn't it. She looked at Snape who seemed to grumble a little, then pulled the map from the back pocket of her jeans. "Where to next?" she asked softly.

He still grumbled, then took the map from her hands and studied it intently. A long, slender finger with neatly cut nails pointed at another point they had marked, somewhere in Southern Wales. She closed her eyes and remembered the picture she had looked at in the book and after a moment, she nodded a little and raised her elbow as she had done before. His grasp was firm but his hand warm on her bare elbow and as soon as she noticed him having a tight, but not hurting grip, she pictured the old mansion in her head and apparated away – a second later, she landed and felt herself pushed back.

Wards.

They – her and Snape – landed in a heap on the grassy ground. He was actually half on her, one of his legs rather unseemly between hers and one of his hands on her stomach just beneath her right breast. She blushed – and immediately scrambled away from underneath him. Couldn't think now what this short, albeit rather, well, intimate, contact had done to her body and to her spine and the bottom of her stomach. She could think about that tingling and that deep, longing feeling later. Not now. And now that blush had to go as well. She tried to take a deep breath and that came out a bit, well, oddly, and got in a bit, well, oddly and her lungs weren't filled with air at all. His leg between hers and his flat hand on her stomach and...no.

Not thinking about it and her face still was so very hot and probably the brightest possible red ever. She didn't dare to look at him. It was her fault, after all, that she hadn't thought about wards and had wanted to apparate straight in front of the building. She shut her eyes tightly for a moment, then decided to just pretend that those things happened and straightened and looked straight into his eyes.

"Sorry," she said quickly with half a shrug and the blush seemed to retreat, the hotness of her face going all the way back to her stomach and other parts of her body. Snape was still only crouching and so she could look down at him, and she wasn't sure whether that was a good idea since she had a perfect view of the tip of his left ear, the hair tucked behind it, and that tip of that ear was bright red as well, when the rest of his face was just as pale as always.

"But wards are a good sign, right?" she said in a light tone, forcing the hot feeling in her body away, just as she had forced the blush back. Seriously, she wasn't some teenager anymore (well, technically, she still was but those few days...who counted anyway) who blushed and felt hot and bothered just because someone touched her accidentally. And not even on those places that were usually, well, considered, well, intimate. Just close to them but, well, the blush threatened to return and inwardly, she scowled at it. It wouldn't do. They had a job to do now. Indecent thoughts – well – she could have those later. Or ignore them.

He merely harrumphed as an answer, then got up from the grass and straightened to his full height. He looked long at her and his eyes were rather hard, she thought.

"You stay back," he said sternly.

"But..." she began, then calmed herself and counted to ten. It wouldn't work to blurt out an argument. She had to think, then speak slowly. That was the only way she could get through to him. She counted to ten again, then took a deep breath which actually transported air in her lungs, some much needed air. "Don't you think there are more wards?" she asked slowly.

He grumbled as he had done before, then shook his head. "You stay back," Snape said, with more force this time, then began walking towards the house she only noticed now. It was much less impressive than it had been on the picture. It wasn't particularly large, not particularly well-kept. Ivy grew all over the place and the house was completely covered by it. But who would ward a place like this? She only stepped through the anti-apparition wards, and slowly followed him. He couldn't possibly think that she would let him go there alone, without a wand to back him up. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly and she stopped in her tracks – but too late and he scowled at her, then just kept on walking.

She followed, her wand at the ready, keeping her eyes on him. Not thinking about that thigh that had touched hers. She wouldn't. Not now. Now as more important and she couldn't go all weird just because they had fallen on a heap.

She filled her lungs with air once more, then freed her mind from the memory of his body on hers, and walked after him.

.

That idiotic girl. Had messed up her apparition of course. Couldn't even remember that one was catapulted back from apparition wards and he had been the one to suffer from it. Landing on her. And yes, for heaven's sake, his leg had landed between hers and his hand had landed somewhere just south of her breast and oh well, it had clearly been a woman's body. But she had been so utterly embarrassed, and had then caught herself and had apologised. Not that he liked that, well, that it had happened in the first place but as far as he could see, at least all of his body parts were still there and probably even intact.

And the insolence. She was following him even though he had told her to stay put. It had been a soft body though. The skin on her stomach warm through her t-shirt and her thighs were...no.

Not thinking about that.

Aideen. The number of wards he felt, and passed through, and oddly enough, they registered in his brain – anti-apparition, anti-muggle, anti-intruder. That should have technically gone off the moment he had passed through – but maybe...maybe it was his squib-status, or maybe it was because it had been weakly cast.

It was odd really, but before he could help himself, he looked over his shoulder once more and made a signal with his hand. It was like he was describing a half-circle and she stopped immediately, stopped and waved her wand around and smiled at him.

He could only scowl and tried not to remember the feeling of his hand on her stomach. He didn't like her. He didn't like her at all but she had felt like a woman underneath him. And the way she had wriggled to get up had felt like...no. He would wring her neck for having them fall on a heap. But when had been the last time he had a woman underneath him? A decade? A little less? A little more? Who knew exactly?

Oh well, he did but he did not want to think about it – and much less he wanted to think about it now. Now he had someone to rescue, now he had Aideen to find. He had to think about Aideen, not about a woman writhing, well, wriggling, underneath him. It had been a silly incident, nothing that either him nor her had done on purpose. It had just happened and it had been a coincidence they had landed the way they had. It hadn't been anything. And he didn't care that it had been Granger. Firm thighs.

He shook his head and walked on, passing a Notice-me-not-charm which didn't work because they knew about the house already and had almost reached the front door when he looked over his shoulder again and she was still busy undoing all the wards.

He had to give this to her, she had left the anti-apparition and the anti-Muggle wards. Usually, the removal of one or two in a myriad of wards went unnoticed.

Honestly speaking, she had behaved herself almost alright. She had obeyed and she had brought, once more, reasonable arguments. It seemed, almost, as if she was learning from spending time around him. Not a lot of time, mind, but that much had seemed enough. She wasn't blurting out her opinion but she waited a moment and expressed it carefully. Quite admirable, for someone like her.

And her skin had been...

No. Didn't matter. He turned to the front door and pulled the pepper-spray from his pocket and raised it slightly. He didn't knock either but merely tried to open the door and it did, miraculously. It just opened. Creaked a bit too.

Oh, it had been a while since he had done something like this and he could almost feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins, through his bloodstream. He took a deep but silent breath. Silence was important. He knew where Andromeda Tonks was hiding or if she was there, if anyone was there. But the excitement alone, the excitement of entering a strange house for a special purpose was uplifting. It was something so familiar and so wonderful and so...his hand automatically grasped his wand but of course it wasn't there and he just switched the can of pepper-spray from his left hand to his right, holding onto it. He took another deep breath and then pressed himself tightly against a wall and listened.

There was absolutely no sound at first. There was nothing, and then, in the dim light in that dark hall with elf-heads lining the walls (well, the Blacks had strange taste), there was a loud scream.

Severus could feel his eyes widening but waited a moment, pressed underneath of the head of Dinky the Obsolete Elf. More screams, or the same scream held for a long time. Not a word, just a scream. It was agonising, it was painful. He gripped the pepper-spray more tightly and on silent soles, followed the scream.

.

He had just vanished inside of the house. He had just turned the handle and had walked inside. Nothing to keep him back, nothing to stop him there.

Hermione couldn't tell if she was worried or curious or anything else, maybe it was a mixture of all of those feelings, and maybe she just wanted to be in the midst of all of this as well. Hell, she was quick with her wand and she was apt with her curses and spells. She could fight, she had proven that time and time again and he obviously still saw her as the little girl that had to be protected.

Her eyesbrows shot up at that thought. Oh yes, it was a very Snape-like thing to do, protecting others in putting himself in the line of danger. How often had he done that without any of them noticing? Without any of them caring? Not this time. This time, she cared. This time, she didn't want to be protected – or she did want to be protected – but she wanted to acknowledge it as well. She wanted to tell him, wanted to let him know that she knew what he was doing. That he still put himself into danger while she was bored outside.

No. She couldn't let this happen and gingerly stepped into the house as well. It smelled like mouldy, dead meat inside and when her eyes got used to the darkness, she saw the lines of house elf heads. She felt the bile rising in her throat, then bravely swallowed it. It wasn't, after all, the first time she had seen such things. She pressed herself against the wall, listening.

Not a sound to be heard but she knew better than to cry for anyone, to shout. For a moment, she just listened. For a moment, she heard nothing and then...

Rapid footsteps on a stair. A stair behind her. She pressed herself even tighter against the wall, tried to blend into the darkness.

Her eyes had adjusted to the dark and it took her only a moment to see the figure on the stairs. The figure was Snape – with something in his arms. She gasped softly, then rushed towards him, her wand raised.

"Granger!" she spat. "Didn't I tell you...?"

Her eyes were drawn to the person in his arms. It was Aideen, clinging to him, one arm hanging limply down as if it didn't belong to her body, broken openly, a bit of bone stuck through the skin and it made Hermione gasp again.

"Is that..." she whispered and he sent her a glare.

"Outside," he said stiffly and carried Aideen in his arms, her friend with her head buried in Snape's neck and one of her arms around the neck as well, trembling, or shivering, or maybe just out in shock but whimpering softly.

"Calm, Aideen," Snape said softly in her ear and Hermione only heard because she followed hot on his heels. Not thinking about how he sounded. Not thinking how gently he carried her. Now was really not the moment. "It's alright. We got you out," he told her then and as soon as they were out in front of the house, he sat down on the steps, Aideen in his lap, cradling her head to him and stroking her back gently before he turned his eyes on her.

"You will take her to the hospital. The Muggle hospital and the closest one around here," he said, "and then you will bring me Veritaserum."

"I..."

"Do not interrupt me, Granger," he hissed. "I don't care where you get it but you'd do well to bring it fast. I will be waiting here."

Hermione stood stockstill and stared at him.

"Are you waiting for Father Christmas to show up?" he snarled. "I think it's safe to put a Featherlight Charm on her. Go. Now."

"I think Harry has some stored away," she muttered as she pointed her wand at Aideen and her friend barely flinched, barely whimpered, just half-sat, half-lay on Snape's lap, almost cuddling him, or being cuddled by him. Or only held by him. She was in a bad way, it seemed though and so she hurried, took her from his lap and could just hold her up after her charm and with a quick nod, she apparated away.

.


	48. State of Affairs

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_In a state of affairs objects fit into one another like the links of a chain. _

_In a state of affairs objects stand in a determinate relation to one another. _

_The determinate way in which objects are connected in a state of affairs is the structure of the state of affairs. _

_Form is the possibility of structure. _

_The structure of a fact consists of the structures of states of affairs. _

_The totality of existing states of affairs is the world. _

_The totality of existing states of affairs also determines which states of affairs do not exist. _

_The existence and non-existence of states of affairs is reality. _

_(We call the existence of states of affairs a positive fact, and their non-existence a negative fact.) _

_States of affairs are independent of one another. _

_From the existence or non-existence of one state of affairs it is impossible to infer the existence or non-existence of another. _

(Wittgenstein, 1918, translation by Pears/McGuinness )

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This was a part he utterly disliked. Crouching low behind a bush, hiding, blending in, waiting. But it was necessary and he cursed himself for acting so rashly. So rashly before he could tell Granger to re-erect the wards, before he could tell her to apparate somewhere she wouldn't be immediately seen. Such as it was, he had been too worried about Aideen, too shocked by her shock and by the way she had been kept.

The cellar had been wet and damp and dark. Very, very dark. He had been glad he had carried that lighter with him and could, this way, at least shed a little light. The door behind which the horrible scream was let loose, was kicked in swiftly. He did not have to have magic to kick a door in, after all. And there she had sat, huddled, her arm hanging limply by her side, and it almost seemed as if she had tried to shrink away from it, to forget it was a part of her. Her eyes had been huge and almost hollow and it was only a brief glint in them that had occurred just the moment she had stopped screaming when he thought she recognised him. Then a gasp of hers and he had found himself talking soothingly to her, idiotic phrases, it's alright, you're safe, everything will be fine, we're getting you out of here now. She had let herself be picked up easily and her eyes had focused on him and a little light had fallen into the cellar, in the dungeons, and he barely noticed that the lighter had burned his finger and then burned against his thigh as he put it in his pocket again.

"Severus," Aideen had whispered, her voice rough and raw.

"Yes," he had said softly, and as quickly as he had been able, he had carried her outside. It was time enough later to think about what he had seen down there, how much her appearance had shocked him and how quickly he had bellowed commands without thinking that Andromeda Tonks would maybe especially test the wards and then a missing one would be very obvious. On the other hand, he still had the matter of surprise on his hands. She couldn't know that it was him and she probably underestimated him – without his magic. She probably thought he wouldn't dare to come near without a wand. And that would be her downfall.

If Granger didn't give them away. He berated himself for acting so stupidly and sat, basically in the bush, waiting for Andromeda Tonks to show up, wondering whether he should tackle her outside, or follow her inside the house.

.

Time to think – none. He had no idea whether Snape had already found Andromeda or not but it was best not to take any chances really. She hadn't had any time anyway, had merely given Aideen to a nurse, well had put her in a wheelchair and with a whispered, 'I'll be back soon,' she had shoved the wheelchair in the arms of the next nurse before she had run out again. There was a time for explanations and a time when explanations could wait – and this was clearly the latter.

She even told that to Harry – in those exact same words when she rummaged around his potions cabinet and with a cry of triumph, took the small vial of Veritaserum before leaving again.

Oh but apparating to where? He hadn't informed her properly. Was Andromeda in the house? Wasn't she? If she wasn't – oh – she had forgotten to recast that last ward and if she tested them, she would notice. Of course if she only walked through them, she probably wouldn't. But, oh, he would skin her for that. He however, wouldn't skin her for another foolish attempt at apparating. He wouldn't be able to find fault in her apparating anymore. There had been a bush, or a bit of shrubbery just outside the apparition wards and she focused her mind on those – and apparated, hearing only the first part of Harry and Ron shouting after her. Oh yes, Ron had been there, she remembered during her apparition. And he would certainly think her odd for not even saying hello but only pillaging Harry's potion cupboard. Time to think about that later. Time for explanations later.

She landed, more or less gracefully on a spot of grass just behind the bush but her knees were a bit weak after that many apparition in so few minutes and she had to use both her hands on the ground to steady herself. Only – one hand didn't feel grass – one hand felt...jeans.

"Shit," she muttered and turned her head slowly. Yes, lovely, she thought sarcastically, while her left hand was firmly on the ground, her right one was, of course, because what other way could it be, on Severus Snape's jeans-clad thigh.

"Granger," he growled. "Retake your apparition-licence if you cannot do it without falling all over other people."

"I'm not usually like that," she snapped. "And it's not my fault that you sit almost where I land."

And – actually, but she would never say this – she must have done something right if she apparated almost on him again.

"Will you remove that hand of will you continue to feel me up?" he hissed suddenly and Hermione, immediately, snatched her hand back. She had quite forgotten that it was there – and it had been a nice feeling, really. His leg had been warm and muscles and...oh no. No. Not now. Later. Or never. Not now thinking about it. And it had just been a hand on a bit of jeans anyway. Nothing special. And no, it would not remind her of his him on her. No.

"There," she said and handed him the Veritaserum, "Harry had some. Will you explain what you intend to do with it?"

"I won't drink it," he hissed again, "use that brain of yours."

"Andromeda Tonks?" she said, "but why..."

She looked at him just in time to see him rolling his eyes, then sighing in what seemed like defeat. "Because I want some answers."

"Will you call the Aurors then?"

There was a moment of silence when he stared straight again, then turned his head to her, his finger on his lips to signal silence. "No," he whispered softly.

"You can't kill someone with Veritaserum," she muttered, "even if you overdose."

Again, he rolled his eyes. "Granger, I have been a potions master for a long time. I do know that."

"Sorry," she whispered contritely, "then what?"

He smirked at her and was about to open his mouth to reply, when they were both startled the faint pop of apparition. Hermione hadn't expected Andromeda Tonks to look like the last time she had seen her, minus of course, Teddy in her arms, but she did. She looked just as friendly, just as normal as Hermione remembered. Oh but Snape was about to get up and she couldn't let this happen, she raised her wand only slightly, and wanted to just sent a little Stunner, when the wand was pushed down roughly and he glared at her silently. He shook his head, then pointed at the spot where she still crouched and mouthed 'Stay.'

Well, she almost did, only shifted a little so she could actually see through the bush and could aim her wand at the woman at the same time. The Stunning Spell was on her lips but she did not yet fire it, wanted to see what Snape had planned, wanted to see how this all played out.

And, in the depth of her mind, she knew she trusted him to manage this alone. He had enough experience to probably handle that woman. She watched in eager anticipation – even if he wand twitched and even if she wanted to rush to his side and help him.

.

She walked with arrogance, with the superior air of someone he had not planned thoroughly and was too secure in thinking they had all under control. And if he were in his position, thinking that nobody had yet made the connection to her, he would have probably felt the same way. Well, not him, but other people, maybe. He would do this all a bit differently, but then again, he had absolutely no reason to abduct anyone.

The Veritaserum was heavy in his pocket. It would be enough for his entire plan. Even a bit more. He hadn't asked where she had got it from so quickly but he didn't care at this moment.

At this moment, it was more important that he had almost reached Andromeda and had the pepper-spray securely in his hand. She just walked through her wards, then stopped, probably when she noticed the missing one. This was his chance. She stood still and the moment she turned around, the pepper-spray landed in her eyes.

Andromeda Tonks screamed in pain and fell to her knees, tried to fire curses at him but missed and he could easily get behind her, force her body completely on the ground and her hands behind her back, the wand thrown away from him, away from her.

"Didn't expect to see me, did you?" he drawled. "Not that you can see me." He bound her as she screamed and cursed and tried to kick and a moment later, Granger, of course, was by his side.

He took a quick look at the young woman, Andromeda Tonks's hands bound behind her back, the nodded towards the woman's legs. "Paralyse them but for heaven's sake don't break them or stumble over them," said he mockingly. She scowled and he had to bite back a smirk. This was going just as planned. Not that he hadn't thought it would but, well, it was nice to see it going so swimmingly.

"Ready," muttered Granger a moment later and nodded at him. He picked Andromeda Tonks up and threw her over his shoulder, still blinded but cursing him in very colourful language and she tried to wriggle down but Granger had astonishingly done this right and she couldn't move her legs at all. Not that he wouldn't have been able to bind her legs with the leftover rope as well but at least this way, Granger could do her little something. Apart from apparating on his person, or underneath his person.

No, he wasn't thinking about her little hand on his thigh – even if he thought she should redo her Apparition licence.

"Snape you f..."

"Language, Mrs Tonks, language," he drawled coldly. "In a moment, you can say all you ever wanted to say."

Granger followed him when he carried her, like a sack of potatoes, into the old house, into the disgusting smell of dead house elves and sat her down on a chair. He pulled out the leftover rope and bound her hands and legs to the chair as well.

"Undo the charm, Granger," he said softly, staring into the bloodshot, probably itchy eyes of the former Miss Black. "Open your mouth, Andromeda," he said icy cold and with as much venom in his voice as he could muster.

"You traitor!" she spat – literally – but missed him by a few inches. "You betrayed all of us. You killed him! You killed my child!"

"Open up, now, or I'll force you," he said threateningly and advanced towards her, towering over her, his hands nearing her face. She didn't leave him any choice really and he doubted that she could see clearly already, so he could easily grab her cheeks in his hand and with a little pressure on them, her mouth opened. With his free hand, he let two drops of Veritaserum fall into her mouth.

"You did not bring Calming Draught?" he asked Granger but she seemed to swallow, then shook her head. "Sorry."

He grumbled, then stepped back from her and waited half a minute.

"Your name?" he asked, sounding almost bored.

"Andromeda Lucilla Tonks, née Black," she spat under the influence of that very lovely potion.

"Good. Age?"

"Forty-six," she ground out, her eyes having a rather interesting pink colour.

"Nice, nice," he drawled. "So let's get down to it then. Did you abduct Aideen Callaghan?"

"Yes," she said.

"Why?"

"Because Draco deserved it."

"What did he deserve?"

"To have her taken from him and then being blamed for it," she said slowly.

Severus swallowed hard, almost gulped. This was not quite what he had expected. He hadn't thought she was that – cunning. "So you wanted to make it look like he had done all this to her?"

"All this and worse!"

"How?" Granger asked, standing beside him now, her face pale and her curls askew – probably from all the apparating.

"I have pictures."

"What pictures?"

"Of her being tortured. There will be more pictures."

"There won't be, she's gone," Granger hissed angrily.

"Granger, let me do this," he said sternly, then turned to Andromeda Black again. "Why did you do it?"

"He deserves it! Just like his father would have deserved Azkaban but he could wriggle out of it again, couldn't he? And you! You're still alive. You should be rotting in hell, Snape."

"That's nice to hear and you're probably correct. Did you kill Salvatore Scabior as well?"

"He killed himself."

"Did you cast the Imperius on Lucius Malfoy and Salvatore Scabior?"

"Yes."

Severus took another deep breath. This was not the woman he had expected to see. He wasn't sure yet whether she had truly gone the way of her older sister and had gone absolutely mad or if this was some sort of weird revenge thing, if this was only because of her life.

"So you killed Salvatore Scabior because he killed your husband, correct?"

"Correct," she said, her eyes growing even pinker now.

"And you put the Imperius on Lucius and dare I say it, on Hestia Jones."

"Yes," Mrs Tonks replied.

"Why?" Granger shrieked. "Why?"

Severus glared at her but that Tonks woman already opened her mouth to answer. "Lucius destroyed my family. If he hadn't infected Cissy and Bella and all the rest with those idiotic thoughts, we could be a proper family who kept out of this, Bella would still be alive and she wouldn't have died on the hands of Molly Weasley and Cissy is absolutely insane for loving him and for believing him and that spawn of theirs. Infected with their ideas that they were something better. My Ted was a prince among men. He had honour and he had grace and none of this pureblooded shit. Lucius brought those ideas back into the family. They were buried until he came and wooed Cissy. It was his fault that my parents believed him and the rest of the family."

"That's not true," Granger muttered. "She's making this up but..."

"She believes this, Granger," Severus replied in a whisper. "Otherwise she couldn't say it like this."

"Is she gone insane?"

"It looks like it," he answered swiftly.

"Why Snape then?" Granger blurted and once more, he had to roll his eyes.

"He's a traitor! He doesn't deserve the gift of magic. He could have saved us all and what does he do? He goes and kills Dumbledore as if it was nothing. He didn't help dear Remus anymore and do you know what my Dora suffered? Keeping away from him, being kept away from him? Snape could always talk sense into Remus. Remus listened to him, out of whichever reason and then he goes and betrays us. He should have died during the battle," she spat.

.

Snape stood very still. He didn't move a single muscle. Hermione was, for a moment, worried about him. He looked very human standing there, his shoulders slightly hunched and he actually felt like standing the same way.

This was the only reason she had taken his magic? The only reason? Just because he had played his part too perfectly?

"Is that all? That's why you did this to him?"

"He should have died, like my Nymphadora died, like Remus died and like Ted died. He told them where to look for my Ted."

"Granger," Snape said and sounded suddenly rather tired, "it's wearing off."

"Right it's wearing off," Andromeda Tonks shouted loudly. "You traitor, I would have destroyed you. I would have watched your house for longer and I would have killed your neighbour and that professor of yours that you like and Draco and her, I would have got all of you..."

"Put a Silencing Charm up," he said tiredly and Hermione immediately complied. This was insane. Insanity. This woman had gone insane. And she believed her own insanity. "Where did you bring Aideen?"

"Swansea," said Hermione voicelessly.

He nodded, then turned around.

"What do we do?" she asked.

He stood and looked at her, and seemed to look even more tired than before. "I'm sure your friend Potter will assist you. Or the Muggle police which might be a better idea. Her wand is somewhere outside..."

"I picked it up," she said and raised it up.

"I'm sure they can prove that it was her who took her sister's wand. It would work for her, I suppose. Feed her Veritaserum if you get her to the Muggle police, that way they won't have to bother to ask questions."

"The wand?" she asked.

He walked tiredly over to her and took it from her hands, then crossed the room to stand before Andromeda Tonks and the woman's pink eyes glanced up rather fearfully. But instead of trying to produce magic, he raised the wand up a little and before her eyes, snapped it cleanly in two, then the two parts in another two, then again, as little as it would go and threw the parts on the ground. "See how it feels," he growled, then walked away again.

"Where are you going?" Hermione asked, feeling overwhelmed and anxious and didn't want to be left alone at all.

He didn't reply, only kept on walking and she could only see how he pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and dialled, then held it to his ear.

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	49. Grice's Maxim of Manner

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

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_Under the category of manner, which I understand as relating not (like the previous categories) to what is said but, rather, to how what is said is to be said, I include the supermaxim – 'Be perspicuous' – and various maxims such as: _

_1. Avoid obscurity of expression._

_2. Avoid ambiguity_

_3. Be brief (avoid unnecessary prolixity)_

_4. Be orderly_

(Grice, 1975)

.

He could only walk away. His job was done, he had achieved what he had wanted to achieve and now, he only had to get Aideen from hospital, hopefully with a cast and some medicine, would then have to bring her home to her loving family and he would be able to catch some sleep as well. Put all the things away, and, in the likely event that Granger would show up at his house again (there was probably no getting rid of her now...), had to get the book of the Blacks ready for her to take again. He didn't want it in any case.

Funny, he thought, as he sat in the taxi to take him to Llwyneryr Hospital, a taxi he had called from his mobile, he worked so hard to burn all his books before – and now he was stuck with another one. Not that he wanted to keep it. And funny, he thought, looking out of the window, that, if Andromeda was taken to a Muggle loony bin, or probably, knowing Granger, Kissed by the oh so fair Wizarding World, the entire Black estate was falling to Draco – and Andromeda's grandson. And that boy, well, as far as he knew, Potter was his godfather. Oh, Severus thought, hopefully there was another person to take care of the toddler and it wasn't up to Potter to raise that poor child.

But that wasn't his business. He had done what he had perceived as his duty. The rest was up to others.

He would call Eleanor as soon as he knew what was happening to Aideen, or as soon as he could take her from the hospital, if he could. Well, he didn't doubt it, or at least he hoped so. She needed to be with family, not in a sterile hospital room somewhere in South Wales.

He leant his head back in the cab and took a deep breath. It had been exciting – but he was rather tired now.

.

Hermione never took her eyes off Andromeda Tonks who still seemed to scream and curse under her breath but her wandless magic wasn't that well and not even the Silencing Charm could be lifted. She hadn't even taken her eyes off her when she had cast her Patronus and had sent for Harry. Harry would know what to do.

She wondered why Snape wanted her to call the Muggle police. Wanted her to give that woman Veritaserum before handing her over to the Muggle authorities. She couldn't understand it but while she waited, she thought about what that woman had said, would let her mind wander back to her forced confession. She had not, in the end, had reasonable arguments for doing what she had done. It was mere madness, Hermione thought, but that woman had always seemed so sane, and she had sacrificed so much for the cause, she had lost more than anyone, it seemed almost like a law in itself that she should go bonkers. All she had left was, after all, Teddy...

Teddy, she thought, her eyes widening, Teddy was somewhere and no matter what, he could not be brought up by a nutjob of a woman. Not by this woman, with the pink eyes and the pink cheeks and the mouth wide open. But who else...of course, there was only one who could, who would...

"Hermione?" she heard from outside and with a last glare, she turned her back for a brief second on Andromeda Tonks.

"I'm in here," she shouted back. Harry. Harry was Teddy's godfather. And there were no other relatives and that would mean. "Harry," she gasped.

"Yeah, I'm here, what's going on?" he stumbled into the darkness of the house and she could hear another pair of footsteps on the dirty ground and another head, a familiar head was visible just behind him.

"Ron?" she asked curiously, her eyes being used to the dimness by now and his red hair shone even in that hall.

"Yeah, Hermione, it sounded like this was urgent," he said.

"It is urgent," she hissed. "Look."

"What's she doing there?" Ron asked, pushing Hermione aside and seemed to want to untie her. "Did you find her like that?"

"No, Ron," she cried. "She took Aideen."

"Took Aideen?" Harry asked, frowning. "What happened to Aideen?"

"She was taken, Harry, that's why I was out all day yesterday and today," she sighed. "And she's the one who did the...you know, the rest." She handed him the Veritaserum. "We got a confession. She said she put the curse on Hestia Jones, and on Malfoy and he wanted to take Aideen and make it look like Draco had done it."

"Who's Aideen?" Ron asked, frowning. "And who's 'we'?"

"Didn't you tell him?" Hermione asked Harry who shook his head.

"Aideen is Draco's girlfriend," she said briefly.

"Where you here with...?" asked Harry and Hermione could feel a faint blush creep in her cheeks. Some things were returning to the front of her mind – his leg between hers, his hand on her stomach. Her hand on his thigh. The way he had so leisurely strolled away with the mobile phone pressed against his ear and his backside so...no. She would not resurrect Head-Severus. Definitely not.

"Snape, yes," she sighed.

"Snape?" Ron asked incredulously.

"Yes, Snape. Aideen is Draco's girlfriend. Draco lives with Mrs Callaghan who is Snape's neighbour," she replied swiftly.

"Malfoy?" Ron asked. "Malfoy lives with an old witch?"

"Draco lives with a Muggle woman," Harry said softly, losing his battle with the grin that spread across his features.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Oi, boys, could we maybe focus on this?" sighed Hermione, pointing at Andromeda Tonks.

"Did he just leave?" asked Harry.

"Snape? Yes. He said to either call the Muggle police or the Aurors. And I didn't know which, so I send you the Patronus."

"She put the curse on Snape?" asked Ron.

Hermione nodded sadly, "She's obviously gone round the bend. You should have heard her speak."

"I can't hear her at all," remarked Harry.

"Ah, sorry, Silencing Charm," she smirked. "It was his idea."

"You worked with Snape on this? Snape helped? But he doesn't have a wand, he can't do magic, or did he get it back or..." Ron stuttered, his face with the slightest pink tinge.

"We worked together, yes," she sighed, "but he did this, actually. I was only the means of transportation," she shrugged. "It would have otherwise taken a while for him to get here."

"What?" this time it was Harry who asked.

Hermione sighed, then went back in time in her head. How had that begun...ah, yes. "Draco called me to ask if I had heard from her since she hadn't arrived in time back home. Well, Manchester-home. Not London-home."

"She said she would leave," nodded Harry and Hermione, as well, had to bite back her smile. Poor Ron. No, she really felt sorry for him, even if it was a bit funny. But their lives had moved on, without Ron, they had made new acquaintances, she had made a good friend in Aideen and they both had, through Aideen and through Draco, contact with Snape. They spoke about Draco as Draco, not Malfoy. Things had happened and he had not been a part of it. But the way he looked at her, speechless and sort of absolutely surprised, was funny. She would have to tell him though, the entire story, and if only for the sake that he stopped looking like that. But first – that woman, still bound and silent on the chair.

"Harry, which do we do?" she asked.

.

"And you are?" the evil-looking nurse asked grumpily.

Aideen still felt a little woozy from the meds she had been given and she wasn't exactly sure yet what had happened at all, but she knew that person standing there and she knew she wanted to go home. He had rescued her, he would bring her home as well. And home was where she wanted to go. She wanted to see her mother and her father and gran and Draco. They'd all be so worried about her and she didn't even know yet how long she had been gone. The pain in her arm was gone, the pain in her head was gone. But her arm felt itchy and hot and heavy and her head woozy and she felt like she saw the world through a bubble, through lenses, through some weird spectacles.

But she wasn't stupid and she hadn't lost her wits entirely. She wasn't sure where she was, but she knew where she wanted to go and with Severus, she was safe. But wasn't the rule family only? Wasn't the rule...she shook her head a little and blinked lazily. She felt sort of fine, except for the woozy head and the heavy and hot and itchy arm and she didn't want to stay at the hospital. Family only.

"He's my stepbrother," she said and her tongue felt sort of lazy as well.

"Is that true?" the evil-looking nurse asked Severus. Severus who had got her out of that cellar. Severus who had somehow carried her outside and the next thing she had known was that someone had put her arm in a cast and had given her another shot of another something.

But she wanted to go home. With Severus.

"Yes," she heard him drawl. "She is my stepsister."

"I cannot let her go without her signing that form," the grumpy nurse said.

"I will sign," said Aideen suddenly. Well, her tongue said, her head needed a moment to catch up.

"Fine," the nurse said and handed Aideen a form. "But you need to take her to the doctor. That arm isn't..."

"Yes," she heard Severus drawl again. "We will."

Before her woozy head could process what was happening, she felt Severus's arm around her shoulders and she felt herself walking out of that hospital.

.

He hated dealing with people. More than anything, really. To explain to that nurse that it had been an accident with a bicycle, and that he wanted to take Aideen home, something she clearly wanted to as well, would have been so much simpler if he had a wand and could actually Confound people.

But it had worked, despite everything and despite Aideen's obviously drugged state, they had managed to get onto a train. She had held out until they had their seats and a moment later, really, the train hadn't started moving yet, she had sunk her head onto his shoulder and, her arm in a cast in her lap, she had made herself comfortable half on him and had flung her good arm across his chest and a moment later, and yet, another moment later, after a drowsy smile at him, she had almost fallen asleep.

He almost felt like taking a nap himself but he had things to do first. Awkwardly, he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the mobile phone. It was odd, though, he realised, that he did so with one hand only, the other, somehow, couldn't be pulled away from Aideen's shoulders. No matter what he wanted to do, it stayed there, his thumb even softly stroking her shoulder.

Not that he couldn't manage to dial a number with one hand only, he could and he did without questioning it, without wondering why. He had rescued that girl, after all,and she had proclaimed herself his stepsister; in a manner of speaking, she almost was. In a manner of speaking, Eleanor had adopted him as a grandson, in a manner of speaking, she had adopted him as a son. In a manner of speaking, they had grown close and he had rescued her. He would make sure that she returned safely to her family. Hence the arm over her shoulder and the stroking finger. He thought.

He held the mobile close to his ear and waited. It was Eleanor's number at home, and he did hope that those two still waited and hadn't gone out on their own.

"Yes?" the ringing had stopped and Eleanor had answered, her voice frantic. He should have – yes, he should have called sooner. It had been irresponsible to wait that long, to make her wait like this, to let her worry. The guilt built in his stomach like a fire, being kindled, it grew and grew until the flames burning away the lining of his stomach and his oesophagus.

"Eleanor, it's Severus," he whispered into the phone.

"Severus, oh, thank God, you're safe. Where are you?" she sighed deeply and the guilt grew and grew. He should have called. He should have told her where he had gone, that he had been quite safe the entire time and that Aideen was alright, apart form her arm which would mend in time. He should have told her.

"I'm sorry I didn't call sooner," he choked on his own spit or on the guilt that he felt to have let her – and Draco – suffer and worry like this. About her, maybe, judging by Eleanor's words, about him as well.

"Where are you?"

"I'm on the train home. We'll get to Piccadilly in about two hours," said he hoarsely.

"We? Severus? Who?"

"I have Aideen with me. I will explain when we get home."

"Aideen? Aideen is with you? Where was she? Is she okay? Did something happen to her? Where was she? Severus? Where? What happened?"

"She's fine. She has a broken arm and she was," he took a look around and hoped that nobody heard him. This sounded too bizarre, "taken by," he sighed, "that person who did this to you and to me but she will be locked away and Aideen is alright."

"Can I talk to her? Severus, let me talk to her."

"She's asleep. I don't want to wake her," he said calmly. "But she is fine. A bit in shock, but fine."

He wanted to tell her something else. He wanted to assuage the guilt he felt, wanted to tell her again that he was sorry and that he should have told her before what he had wanted to do, that he had a vague idea where she had been taken to, but nothing else came out of his mouth. Nothing else.

He would – he would have to sit down with her with a cup of tea and explain but now he just...

"We'll be there soon," he only said.

"And she's really fine?" Eleanor asked again.

"Yes, she's fine," he replied, "snoring on my shoulder."

"Give her a kiss from me. Oh she's save. Oh," she almost seemed to cry and then there was only he beeping after she had hung up.

The flaming guilt in his stomach lessened, the fire not completely extinguished but smaller and smaller, especially when he, careful that nobody saw him in that train, bent his head towards hers and pressed a tiny kiss on her forehead.

.

Kingsley Shacklebolt couldn't stop shaking his head, when he listened to Hermione's version, when he listened to Andromeda Tonks's version under Veritaserum. He shook his head the entire time and Harry could see that he was battling with himself. Battling over what to do with that woman, battling over what to do with Snape, who had obviously caught her almost by himself.

For Harry, things were clear. Snape had to be reinstated into the Wizarding World. He had to get his magic back, forces would have to be drawn up to make sure there was a counter-curse to the one that had been inflicted on him. That man, yes, he was a git but apparently the entire Auror department hadn't managed what Snape had done within one and a half days. Find the woman who had done all those things to various members of the Wizarding World. He deserved it – it was only right. And if he had to make sure of that personally. If he had to go to the library with Hermione himself, if he had to do research himself. The treatment of him had been grotty and shabby and mean. Terrible.

Oh but he would have to get Teddy first. Couldn't let his godson be with a French au-pair. Even if he didn't know anything about raising children. Even if he had absolutely no idea what to do. Ron had offered his help – with his many siblings, he would know more than him, and Hermione had sort of offered her help – and he knew Molly would help too. He couldn't let his godson grow up with anything less than a loving family. He wouldn't allow that.

"We'll have to bring this before the Wizengamot," Shacklebolt said.

"What about Snape?" Ron, yes, Ron, asked. Harry looked at him in puzzlement and Hermione seemed to feel the same way, she looked at him the same way.

"We will have to talk this through. And the girl will have to be obliviated, of course," replied the Minister of Magic.

"What?" Hermione shrieked. "No!"

And suddenly, it was clear to Harry, and probably to Hermione – why, amongst other things, Snape had wanted this to be handled by the Muggle police.

.


	50. Semantic Structure

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_I will consider a linguistic utterance_ u _to be an inscription_ ins _related by a person_ p _at a time _t _to a linguistic structure_ ls:

(D 1) u = {ins, p, t, ls}

_The inscription is the acoustic or visual stimulus produced or perceived by_ p. _Thus (D 1) encompasses both speech production and perception. It merely says that _ins _is an utterance if and only if a person maps on it a linguistic structure_ ls._ The highly complex actual processes involved in this mapping do not concern us here. The linguistic structur_e ls _is a triple_

(D 2) ls = {pt, syn, sem}

of a phonetic (or graphic) structure, a morpho-syntactic structure syn,_ and a semantic structure_ sem, _where_ syn _determines a fairly complicated compositional correlation between parts of_ pt _and components of _sem.

(Bierwisch, 1980)

.

The boy's eyes had shone with a suspiciously wet glimmer when she had given him the news that Aideen was safe, that she was alright, that she was with Severus, that they were on their way home. And a moment later, the boy with the suspiciously wet glimmer in his eyes (and of course those weren't tears – boys didn't cry after all), had thrown his arms around her and had her, old woman that she was, lifted her off his feet and had once, twice twirled her around, before he sat her on her feet again and bombarded her with questions.

No, she didn't know exactly when they would arrive (except what Severus had said about 'in about two hours') but he wouldn't be swayed, had made a huge pot of tea (without her prompting him to do so) and with a cup in his hands, he had positioned himself in the front room, staring out of the window, waiting.

Eleanor had to admit that she peeked as well from time to time, putting her hands on his shoulders. The silence that lay between them was a different silence than before. It was more relaxed, it was companionable, but it didn't keep Eleanor from wandering into the kitchen a little while after Draco had put himself on a chair in front of the window, to make some food.

She had been deadly, deadly worried about Severus as well. He had been gone that morning when she had knocked on his back door. He hadn't been there. There had only been absolute silence inside and she hadn't been able to stop herself from leaning against his house, her stomach in trouble, giving her trouble, her insides a raging torrent of worry, a clenching and unclenching of muscles she didn't remember having, her nerves all worn out, firing shot after shot of new worry into her body – after that sleepless night no surprise. She had not told Draco that Severus had vanished as well. She had kept it to herself, thinking that she would give him time, that he was maybe just out shopping (not that he would, she thought, under such circumstances), maybe just at uni, or somewhere. She had kept it to herself, had promised herself to wait until that evening and when he was still gone there, she had decided that she would go to the police. Until then, she had just sat with Draco.

In that terrible silence she had sat – both not knowing what to do, what to say. Together, the two of them at the table, tea getting cold, not daring to look at one another. Both not knowing how to handle this.

Now, it was so different – Draco sat very eagerly at the window, he couldn't stop tapping his foot on the floor, and smiling softly, as far Eleanor could see from where she stood, half watching her simmering soup (that was best for her nerves and Draco's nerves and probably for Severus's and Aideen's as well) and seeing dimly the boy's reflection in the window. She took a deep breath and turned back into the kitchen, watching her soup on the stove, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

Aideen was alright. Aideen and Severus were both alright. They were on their way home. They were safe.

She had to repeat this in her head, had to do it to calm her shot nerves, to stop that clenching and unclenching of muscles in her stomach.

.

Hermione shook her head viciously. "No," she said again. "She's Draco's girlfriend and if you obliviate her, she will forget everything." She glared at Kingsley. "And Snape would kill me. He said to call the Muggle police and now I exactly know why."

Harry pulled on her arm, tugged on her fingers, and she whipped her head around to glare at him for a moment. "No. They can deal with that woman but not with Aideen. If they start on Aideen, where do they end? Do they obliviate Mrs Callaghan as well? Draco to make him forget Aideen? Me because I was there? You because I told you? Ron? Where is Ron, by the way? Her in there to make her forget she did that? No." She looked at Kingsley again. "If you obliviate her, I'll snap my wand."

"Hermione, do not be childish," Kingsley said with his eyebrows arched.

She decided to ignore his comment. "What happens if Aideen were to marry Draco? If they get children? Do you send Obliviators as well to make her forget her husband and her children?"

The Minister groaned. "No of course not but that is hardly the case now, is it?"

"Not yet, no," she hissed, "but who knows how soon. You destroy the future of them if you obliviate her now," she shook her head and jerked her hand away from Harry, who held it still. "You changed since you became Minister. And to think that I thought you'd do a good job," she spat and turned on her heel, leaving that office, wanting to leave the Ministry, wanting to get away from those idiotic people.

"Hermione!" cried Harry behind her and she didn't slow her steps, only threw him a look over her shoulder, as she continued rushing away. Idiocy. How could they even think about obliviating Aideen – yes, she had been abducted and probably tortured but she was with Draco. Whether she knew about magic or not before the incident didn't matter much, she knew now and she would know in the future but obliviating her would be like...like rape of her mind, like stealing precious memories from her, or at least important memories, depending on what they ultimately decided they wanted to remove from her memory. Obliviation was...no.

She was strictly against it these days. Playing around with the mind was something which should fall under the same category as Unforgivables.

Feeling Harry's hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it off, knowing that she had to pay her parents a visit as soon as possible.

.

"Mrs Callaghan!" Draco jumped up and down when he saw the two figures together on the street. "Mrs Callaghan, it's Aideen!" he shouted quite un-Malfoyesque and rushed to the door, flung it open and bounced outside. He couldn't describe what he was feeling in that moment. Overwhelming joy, fear, trepidation, happiness. Oh, but her arm was in a Muggle cast and her eyes had dark shadows underneath them. She limped, or hung onto Severus, or...her arm was in a cast.

He ran to her and her face, tired as it seemed to be, broke out in a beaming smile and tears began to stream down her face. Why was she crying, Draco couldn't help but wonder and she pulled her upper lip into her mouth and pressed her eyes together tightly and shot his godfather a grateful, exhausted and teary smile before she let go off him and walked slowly towards him.

"Aideen," he whispered and before he could say anything more, he carefully wrapped his arms around her, buried his head deep into the crook of her neck, tried to smell Aideen but could only smell hospital and mouldy cellar and something else he couldn't quite distinguish. "Aideen," he whispered again and a second later, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"We should go inside," he heard his godfather speak in the calmest voice Draco could imagine. "You need to sit down."

He felt his girlfriend nod and hesitantly, he pulled away, but didn't let go of her entirely, kept the arm without the cast safely in his hold. Just to make sure for himself that she really was there. That this was no dream, no illusion, that those two days were really over and that she was really there. That he had her again. With him, by his side. Even if she did look tired and overwhelmed herself and hadn't said a single word yet. But she smiled at him. She smiled and she was there.

"Aideen," he heard Mrs Callaghan gasp and a moment later, she was almost roughly pulled forward and he felt himself beside the old woman, giving her granddaughter a long, long hug and Draco was included then, was hugging Aideen, was hugging Mrs Callaghan and Severus, his godfather stood behind them, as f he was making sure they were all alright and he realised...

"Did you find her?" he asked, disentangling himself from the three arms holding him, turning to Severus.

"He did, Draco. He found me," Aideen whispered softly. "He found me." New tears, he could see, spilled from her eyes and she let go off her grandmother as well, looking at Severus, wiping the tears away with her good hand. "He found me and he got me out."

A look passed between Mrs Callaghan and Severus and she briefly let go off Aideen to go over to him – and hug him tightly and then there seemed to be an understanding when the old woman took Aideen's hand and pulled her gently towards the house. "I made soup, love," she said to nobody in particular and quickly took his place on the other side of Aideen, helping her. Still, Severus was behind them, behind all three of them and it was strange. He seemed to be playing the same role he had at school – always watching out, always wanting to help, always helping in his own way and he had...

He had never once thanked him for that night on the Astronomy Tower. He had never thanked him for caring enough about him, for caring enough about his soul and his fate and his well-being. His godfather had known that Draco would have broken if he had actually done it. He had never thanked him. Not one word.

Now he would. Whatever he had done to find Aideen, whatever had happened. He had some thanking to do.

.

"Harry?" Hermione blinked rather sheepishly.

"You're not serious," Ron said, his mouth only closing to say the words properly.

"What do you think I'd do?" he snapped. "I'm his godfather. Right, Teddy? I'm your goddaddy and where else would you grow up now?"

"Harry, this is not a good idea," said Hermione disapprovingly.

"You don't know anything about children," said Ron and shook his head.

Harry growled low in his throat and shifted the toddler in his arms. "What do you suggest I do? Bring him to an orphanage? Let that French au-pair who has no idea how to tie her own shoelaces take care of him? Or some distant relation who doesn't know he exist and will put him in a...somewhere?"

With satisfaction, he saw Hermione stutter for words and Ron turn quite red in the face. He had, subtly, reminded them of not only his own past, but of the past of some well, remembered Dark Wizard who had been unloved, cast away. Of course he had been mentally ill as well but with Teddy's grandmother a bit barmy, who was to say what would happen with Teddy once he grew up? Not that Harry believed Teddy would ever grow up to be something like evil Snakeface had been, at least not with the rather fetching blue hair he sported at the moment and the gurgling noises he made. But Teddy was his responsibility nobody could stop him from taking it.

"He will sleep in my room until we manage a nursery or something. And I'm sure Kreacher will be delighted to make clothes for him or we buy clothes for him. But he stays," he said and cuddled the boy to his chest and had, almost immediately a rather large, well, huge wet spot on his t-shirt where Teddy had bitten into it. He wasn't sure whether eighteen months old children should do that still, but he took it in his stride and glowered at his two friends, daring them to say something.

"I'll ask Mum for advice," Ron said suddenly and stood a little straighter and a little taller and the blush had left him completely. "We fought Voldemort. We can manage a toddler."

"He needs to be brought up," hissed Hermione. "Do you know anything about bringing up babies? About...you rushed into this without thinking."

"No, I did not rush. It was made necessary. I am the only one he has. And don't you think I would have preferred to grow up with Sirius than to be stuck in that bloody cupboard at the Dursleys? I may not know much about bringing up children, but he will be loved," he said angrily and not paying attention to what Teddy gurgled (or whether he spoke real words), he rushed up the stairs with the child in his arms, shouting for Kreacher at the same time.

.

"You know, Hermione, seems for once I'm not the insensitive clot," remarked Ron, shrugging his shoulders.

"I'm being just...ergh, I'm just being reasonable. He takes off from the Ministry and the next thing I know is that he comes back here with Teddy. Did he even think about it? He should really think about those things first."

Ron sighed softly, then took her hand. "He's had too many bad experiences with people being brought up. He has to do this."

"But he doesn't know anything about it," she almost shrieked. Why, why, why didn't they understand? She understood that Harry wanted to take care of the child but what did he know about children? What did she know about children? And Ron was the second youngest – he didn't know much about children either.

"Well," Ron grinned the way she hadn't seen him grin in quite a while, "you're the bookworm, aren't you? Stick your nose in your book and see what you can learn about raising children."

She gasped, then knew that he was joking and she had to shake her head. "You stick your nose in a book," she huffed, "I'll go out for a bit."

Ron nodded, then stopped her as she was about to turn away. "Hermione?" he asked, his hand on her upper arm.

"Yes?"

"I'm, erm, glad we can...you know, that you don't mind me...you know."

She smiled a little, then nodded, "So am I."

.

Severus was glad to be able to sit down and to be able to spoon his soup in peace. He knew that both Draco and Eleanor waited for the entire story but he also knew that it was maybe unwise to tell Aideen in her state. He had underestimated how weak she was, how she had been affected by those two days in the damp cellar, by the almost constant darkness. The pain in her arm was probably bearable but she had shoved the soup as far away from herself as she could and hadn't said a word about it. She hadn't said a single thing – but Severus knew that she would have to talk eventually. Instead, she had dragged herself to the kitchen and had returned a moment later with a packet of crisps and some chocolate. Not the healthiest food and usually, he knew, Eleanor would berate her for this, but she didn't even glare. Aideen's grandmother only smiled at her and looked questioningly at him.

But since the girl had no recollection of being apparated, he wanted to tell Draco and Eleanor all the facts before they decided on what to tell her. It was the sensible thing to do and she had to sleep first anyway – the crisps gone entirely, the chocolate almost gone entirely.

He looked at his godson – that boy was happiest at the table so far. He didn't move from her side once and when he head drooped and almost hit the table, he picked her up.

"Draco, what are you doing?" the girl asked sleepily.

"I'm bringing you to bed," he replied softly.

"I wanna shower," she moaned. "Please."

Severus and Eleanor looked at one another and when she nodded towards the plates on the table and when he nodded, she got up. "I'll help you bathe. Showering should be difficult with that cast," she explained gently and followed her in Draco's arms up the stairs.

This was when Severus could draw the first relaxed sigh. This was the moment he could finally feel the muscles in his shoulders and in his back loosen a bit. Aideen was in the arms of those she loved (apart from her parents but he wasn't sure how much Eleanor had told them) and she would sleep, she would have to talk about what had happened and if she wanted to talk to him, well, it was better than not talking at all, but she was out of harm's way.

He took a sip of water before he began to put the plates together. It was hardly appropriate for him to be close when the girl bathed – and nor was it appropriate for Draco but he relied on Eleanor for that. That woman's sense of morality was...Irish Catholic. He sighed again as he got up to put the plates into the kitchen when he heard Draco come down the stairs again. But he could do with a bit of sleep as well, to be honest and he dreaded answering all the questions his godson and Eleanor would have. He put the plates in the sink when he thought he heard a soft knock somewhere but it was probably just his overworked brain, still trying to process the events – seeing Aideen cowering in the corner in that damp, cold dungeon, her almost hopeless, lifeless eyes and her unbelieving smile when she had recognised him, him falling on Hermione Granger and feeling her underneath him, her hand on his thigh and the elf-heads on the wall in that old mansion, Aideen clinging to him and whispering something about hurt and pain and darkness and then Granger apparating her away and him taking this dreadfully expensive cab to the hospital, taking her home, kissing her forehead, then Draco and Eleanor and both of them so happy to see them again. Him feeling so guilty about not calling Eleanor sooner, not helping her any. Eleanor hugging first Aideen and then him and squeezing so tightly that he thought there was no air left in his lungs.

He put his arms on the kitchen counter and his head on his arms. He needed sleep desperately. Exhausted – that kind of exhausted that he hadn't felt since his spy-days. The kind of exhaustion that usually came with three large glasses full of Firewhiskey which always had let him sleep. The kind of exhaustion that usually came with wanting to forget what had happened before.

He pushed his head deeper between his arms on the counter and took a deep breath. Just telling the story, then bed. Wasn't long now.

"Oh thank God," he shot up when he heard the voice behind him. Female. Annoying. Soft stomach. Firm thighs. Warm skin. Bossy. His head turned so quickly that the thought of whiplash briefly crossed his mind but the woman standing there, hand clutching her chest chased it away. "I was so worried about you," she continued, speaking quickly. "I rang the bell and rang the bell over at yours and there was no answer and I thought something happened or they had obliviated you and Aideen already and I'm so glad you're here."

Severus frowned. This was the last thing he needed now but somehow - weirdly enough - it was kind of strange to notice her being worried.

.


	51. Entailment

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

.

_Semantic entailment is defined as follows (Levinson 1983: 174)_

_A semantically entails B iff [f and only if] every situation which makes A true makes B true (or: in all worlds in which A is true, B is true)_

_According to Levinson (1083), this relation is basic to semantics and captures inferences derived solely from logical truths or semantic content. Levinson also notes that while pragmatic inferences are defeasable or cancelable, deductive or logical inferences are not. The consistency constraint of semantic entailment can be evoked to explain the cancellation of implicatures of disjoint reference from the use of a marked NP [noun phrase] in instances where the meaning of the anaphor is semantically entailed by the meaning of the antecedent. In other words, the predicated M-contrast in reference between a marked and an alternative unmarked expression can be overruled by semantic entailments. Such entailments depend on the semantic features of the lexicon and the language users' knowledge of the lexicon. _

(Blackwell, 2002)

.

"They want what?" thundered Severus, the meaning of her words seeping into his brain. ...they had obliviated you and Aideen already...

"They want what what?" asked Granger, standing there, scratching her eyebrow, making some of the hairs stand up straight, others look flat. Snape wasn't sure eyebrows were supposed to look like that at all but she didn't seem to mind.

"You went to the Aurors," he said suddenly, understanding her words. "Didn't you?"

Granger shrugged defeatedly. "I wasn't sure how to explain to Muggles what she was about to say, I mean, if I had given her Veritaserum before bringing in the police and she had ranted about wands and wizards and you and Malfoy and breaking Aideen's arm with a spell, how could I have explained that?"

"Not. You wouldn't have explained it at all," he shouted angrily. "That was the entire point. They would have brought her into an institution, she would have been declared insane as soon as you and me and Aideen would have testified against her and she would have been locked away. That was the point."

"Why didn't you say so?" she cried, glaring at him.

"Because I considered you smart enough to figure it out yourself," he growled. Yes, he had considered her bright enough to know that bringing Andromeda to any Wizard's attention, and especially the Ministry's would result in serious consequences, not only for her but also for him and especially for Aideen.

"I..." she faltered and looked at him with a serious expression in her eyes and tiny, shallow lines formed on her forehead. "What?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "You will fix this," he snarled. "I will not have wizards trampling all over this place and they will not hurt Aideen or anyone else living here. You will make sure they don't even consider trying to obliviate her."

"I tried," she interrupted quickly. "But..." she rubbed her hand over her face and looked up at him tiredly, almost vulnerable. "I will try. They're so stubborn though. I mean Shacklebolt is. It's like...every Minister has to undergo a sort of lobotomy, cutting out the parts of their brains that are reasonable and decent and...it's not striving for power or anything, I don't think, but rather having to do the right thing but only by the book. You know it's like they're all the same way once their Minister. I had expected so much more from Kingsley, like really doing the right things and really having it all under control but what does he do? Give everyone he considers sort of dangerous Veritaserum, allows suspects (in inverted commas) to be almost tortured and what does he gain? Absolutely nothing. You know," she looked at him and her eyes were almost glassy, "It took you not even a day to find her, and the Ministry has been going on about this for months and months and they didn't have a single clue. And you, with only a map and that horrid book and with nothing else but pepper-spray and rope, find her and make sure that she can't do any harm anymore. The Ministry with all their Aurors and research people and all the possibilities they have, they find nothing. For months and you – a day. Less than that."

Severus could only stare at her, he had no idea what to say to this. This was – he blinked – almost a kind of worshipping of him. This was explaining – in babbling language – that he had done well, had done better than the Ministry. Not that this was an achievement, almost every fool could do better than the Ministry of Magic. But she had complimented him. In a weird way.

Draco, standing in the door frame seemed to think so too and he clapped his hands together (like a mad seal, to be honest) and cried, "Bravo, Granger, bravo."

She spun on her heel and stared at Draco now. He grinned, relief so obvious on his features. "How does she know all this though?" he asked, his mad-seal-clapping finally finished.

"I was there, Draco," she said softly, having run out of steam, probably, her cheeks almost the same shade of pink they had shown when he had landed on top of her.

"You were there? You helped him? Uncle Severus, you allowed her to help bring Aideen back?" he asked, confused.

"I didn't help, I just..."

"She helped," said Severus suddenly. She had after all, not that it was helpful what she had done afterwards, but she had obeyed and she had done what he had told her to do. Apart from the mucked up Apparition. And all that that had entailed.

Draco, by those two words, seemed literally struck dumb. His mouth hung a bit open and he looked searchingly at Granger.

"I just apparated," said she, and now her face was the colour it had been after she had wriggled out from underneath him.

His godson shook his head. He pointed at him, then at Granger. "You let her apparate you?" he asked voicelessly and Severus could only glare at Granger and her pretty blush. It was still there but there was determination in her voice when she spoke.

"This is not important right now. I just wanted to check if Aideen and him," she nudged her head towards himself, "were alright and wanted to know if the Ministry did something stupid already. Now that I know they didn't, I can go and work on, as you put it so nicely," she didn't only nudge her head at him now but pointed her finger at him, "fixing my mistake."

"What mistake?" Eleanor came into the kitchen, and gave Hermione a small smile. "She's asleep."

"Yes, what mistake?" asked Draco.

"I," she sighed, "informed the Aurors instead of the police as Snape suggested."

"I didn't suggest," he growled, and her blush was gone. "I told you to do it."

"No, you said I should tell Harry or call the Muggle police. Nothing else. I called Harry and he came and we talked about what to do and decided on the Aurors because it seemed simpler," she was grinding her teeth.

He wanted nothing more than to close his tired eyes, fall into his warm bed, pull the duvet up to his ears and stretch his legs. Wanted to wriggle his toes in the soft bedding, wanted to breathe in the scent of the freshly washed linens. Wanted to hide his face in his pillow and go to sleep. He wanted to just sleep and nothing more. But since when was it important what he wanted? It didn't matter. He blinked to get a bit more liquid into his eyes, to try and make the gritty feeling go away and Eleanor was beside him, leaning against the kitchen counter as he did now and tugged on his arm.

"Would you tell us what happened?" she asked gently, concern visible, hearable, tangible.

Granger – as he had suspected – had already opened her mouth but he held up a hand to silence her and despite his tiredness he seemed to be able to still intimidate her by a glance.

"She was taken by Andromeda Tonks. She's a witch, Draco's aunt, and she has a long-standing hatred towards Draco's family and towards me and several others as she lost her entire family in the war and she wanted to get even and took Aideen and hurt her, hoping she could make it look like Draco had done it," he explained briefly, his eyes flickering to Granger who seemed intent on interrupting.

"Aunt Andromeda?" Draco paled visibly. "But she came to Mother just before Uncle Severus was, erm, tried. They tried, I suppose, to make peace. She brought that grandson of hers. Theodore, or Ted or something."

"She did?" Granger gasped. "Really?"

Draco nodded, shocked, sitting down on one of the chairs. "The kid is a Metamorphmagus and I played with him a little when Mother send me out of the room." He turned towards Severus. "Do you think Mother had..."

He had to shake his head immediately. Even if he did think that Narcissa had anything to do with that, which of course, he didn't, he would never tell Draco. Never.

"How did you find Aideen?" asked Eleanor, taking his hand and holding it very tightly between her liver-spotted, wrinkly, warm ones.

"I went to find her, found only the au-pair who seems to be mentally challenged, could with a book Granger brought me locate her and get her out of the dungeons."

"Dungeons?" Eleanor gasped.

"Cellar," he shrugged. "Granger apparated her to the hospital, I picked her up from there when Andromeda Tonks was under control and the rest you know."

"How did you...?"

Severus shook his head. "Not today," he said and wanted his hand back from Eleanor but she wouldn't let go. Instead, she held it to her chest and pulled him, this way, a bit closer to her side.

"Thank you," she whispered and as she stood on her tip-toes, she pressed a kiss on his cheek, her eyes shining with tears. He couldn't deal with that now. He needed to take his shoes off and his jacket off and maybe a brief shower before he could slip into his bed and forget this had ever happened – if only for a short while.

"Granger, Draco, I suggest you put wards up which will notify you of any wizard-visitors which might want to step by. It will be sufficient for the time being." He looked at Eleanor and felt relieved, very, very relieved that he had been able to bring Aideen back. For her sake. For the smile she gave him and the hug he felt himself suddenly enveloped in. For her soft 'thank you' muttered against his chest.

He could only give a brief nod to Granger, who seemed like she wanted to say something, and a scowl at his godson who had already begun saying something, then left the house. Home. His bed.

.

"Why Aunt Andromeda?" asked Draco suddenly, the front door having just clicked shut.

"Draco," Hermione sighed, "The stuff she told us under Veritaserum...she's not normal anymore. She was absolutely...nutters. She believes Snape is responsible for our side losing so many and she believes it was your father who brought the 'Darkness' back into the Black family. She has her own ideas now, sort of."

"Father didn't," he said forcefully. "It was the other way around. My grandmother Druella, when she was alive, she gave me the creeps when I was young. She would actually walk around the house and said things like, 'Mudbloods should all be hung by their toenails, then quartered by Hippogriffs, then waah, this and that, and the Mudbloods will be the downfall of society and it was all the Mudbloods' fault that we have to hide, waaah, blah blah.' Seriously, she was worse. She once spat at a Muggle who walked past the Leaky Cauldron. My father was moderate in comparison. Still is. If my grandmother had known that Uncle Severus was my godfather, she would killed both my father and my mother and, well, probably Severus. It wasn't Father who brought those idea into that side of the family."

Mrs Callaghan cleared her throat. "Would either of you explain what a Mudblood is? And Aunt Andromeda?"

"A Mudblood is the derogative term for Muggle," Hermione answered tiredly.

"And Aunt Andromeda is my mother's sister who married a Muggle-born wizard," continued Draco.

"And it was this Andromeda who kidnapped my Aideen? To make it look like you had done it?" the old woman asked to confirm and both she and Draco nodded.

"Why?"

"She hates my father and me, I guess," Draco said slowly.

"And she wanted to hurt him. And probably Snape," added Hermione.

"Is she locked away then?" asked Mrs Callaghan.

"Yes, but that's the trouble, according to Granger," growled Draco.

"This spell that Eileen used on me as well, I presume?"

"Eileen?" asked Hermione. "What?"

"Yes, Mrs Callaghan," Draco nodded, "Same spell but done professionally."

"But she doesn't know anything about magic," Mrs Callaghan shook her head. "Not even now. She doesn't remember how she got to hospital."

"The Ministry won't care," said Draco darkly.

"We can't do anything now anyway," said Hermione, shaking her head. It made no sense now, she was tired and worn-out and she wanted to just go to bed. "Draco, can you cast the wards or should I? I need to go home but will return in the morning if that's alright?"

"I will cast them," said Draco and Hermione felt herself enveloped in arms – not Draco's, not male – and to a deep breath. Mrs Callaghan pressed her head against her chest and Hermione could smell fresh bread and soup and homeliness and a hand brushing through her curls.

"Thank you for helping Severus and for getting Aideen out of there," the old woman told her gentle, still running her fingers through her hair.

"I didn't do much," said Hermione, softly and quietly and utterly taken aback by that genuine thanks.

"What happened to that kid?" she heard Draco asked and she unwillingly, stepped out of the embrace. It had, she had to admit this, felt wonderful to be hugged like this again. Motherly, grandmotherly hug. She smiled at Mrs Callaghan and said thanks herself before she turned back to him.

"Harry," she said quietly.

"Potter?" he sneered. "Potter took the kid?"

She shrugged, then put her hand on his arm. "He's his godfather," and with that, and a nod towards the older woman, she left the house and apparated from the doorstep.

It was the last straw, really. Barely keeping herself together, not checking how her eyebrows looked like, whether they were all there, whether all her fingernails, all her toenails were where they belonged. Her arms were there, her legs were there and her breasts were there, her head was there, her hair was there. The rest could wait until the morning. She could only stagger to her bed, having forgot how draining Apparition could be. Forgot about the baby, forgot about Ron and fell into her bed in her clothes, the last thing on her mind – how Snape had said that she had helped and how his hand had felt on her stomach.

.

Eleanor was tired. She knew she should sleep. Draco was asleep. Severus was probably asleep, Hermione was asleep. And she – she sat in the old armchair in the second guest room next to Draco's and watched how her granddaughter sleep. The girl lay on her side, the arm in the cast carefully on top of the duvet. She could see how her eyes moved underneath her lids, dreaming, possibly, and Eleanor only hoped that it was a good dream, not a nightmare.

The way she had understood it – and she had understood – Aideen had been kept in a cellar, in a dungeon, for those two days and from the way she had pushed the soup away, Eleanor thought that maybe she was only fed soup. The way she had gobbled down the crisps and the chocolate...she would get a decent meal as soon as she woke up. Whatever she wished. Letting the girl out of her sight...that would be difficult.

She pressed her lips as tightly together as they would go – she had never, never felt that kind of worry since about – 1940 and the Blitz and the following four and a half years when he had gone off to fight the Jerry. She had never wanted to feel that kind of terror again, not knowing where a member of her family was, whether they were well, or even still alive. She had never wanted to remember those days when she had lived from day to day, thinking of him, but not knowing whether she would see him again. And now this, her, gone. Aideen, after all, was the member of her family she saw most often, the one who came by most often, the one who cared, probably, most about her. But nevertheless, any of her family...any one of those masses of people...she swallowed around the lump in her throat and that same lump caused some sort of pressure behind her eyes and she could feel her eyes really begin to fill with tears. She knew it was best not to fight them, to just let the pressure release naturally. She dropped her face in her hands and felt hot, burning drops of salty liquid falling into them, but tried not to make any noise – she couldn't wake Aideen, the girl needed her rest, the girl needed sleep. She needed to have some peace now.

Eleanor let herself cry, then lent back in the chair, closing her eyes, trying to rest her own hurting eyes.

.

It was around three in the morning, Draco saw on his little bedside clock when he woke up with a jolt. He had to remind himself that Aideen was asleep just in the next room, that he didn't have to worry about her being possibly dead or raped or tortured. She had a broken arm and seemed a bit traumatised but she had kissed him before she had taken her bath the night before and she had smiled at him. She wasn't in any danger now.

Well – she was. If they came to obliviate her, and there was nothing to obliviate because she didn't know about magic, they could seriously damage her brain. And make her forget other things – more important things. Him. Severus. Even Hermione. Things she needed for university. And that couldn't be.

And truth be told, he only knew of one person who maybe had a tiny bit of influence with the Ministry. Whose influence had lessened and lessened but whose word still counted amongst many. And if it leaked out that it had been Aideen – and not any Muggle – who had been kidnapped – if it leaked out that Aideen had been kidnapped because of him, the cat was out of the bag in any case. And if he acted quickly now, he could make sure it came as less of a shock for him, he hoped. Or it would make things worse and Aideen would be obliviated completely.

Still, it was a risk he would have to take. He sat up, and picked up a pad and a pen Aideen had left in his room the last time she had been there and frowned: he would hate Muggle paper. Still, there was nothing to be done, but he needed an owl and he wasn't sure whether the family owl still heard his whistle but he had to try. He opened the window, whistled and as he waited, he put pen to paper and wrote.

.

Severus stretched languidly. His bed was wonderfully comfortable, warm, soft light filtering in through the curtains, the sun tickling his nose. Everything was more or less alright; Aideen was back, the could fight off having her obliviated by pretending that Draco had proposed and had a right to inform his wife or by any other means and while the book was still there, Granger seemed to be more bearable.

Except – she had been truly worried the night before. He had no idea why but her face had shown it so clearly the evening before. Or maybe it had just been the lack of sleep and he had imagined it all and she hadn't looked relieved when she had seen him. Maybe it had just been his imagination and the thought of her body.

Which was really just any body. It was a female body, nothing else but he still felt a stirring in certain parts of his body. He certainly couldn't deny those.

Well, he thought, maybe it was time to investigate the entire matter with Dr Deveney a bit more. She was a female with a body after all.

.

_The return of the A/N (I hope you don't hate me for it): I am unwell lately, hence I do not want to bother you with whiny stuff from my RL, but I am still alive (erm, obviously) and will update as soon as possible. _

_Before you ask again: Yes. Yes. This is a HGSS and as you noticed, there is already a sort of blossoming romance there (ahem, yes). _


	52. Semantically Vacuous Words

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Some lexical items are widely held to make no semantic contribution to the structures in which they occur. The standard example is of certain occurrences of prepositions, such as 'of' in 'proud of John' or 'father of John'. Another plausible candidate is the copula 'be' in predicative sentences like 'John is rich'. We will also assume, at least for the time being, that the indefinite article 'a' is vacuous when it occurs in predicate nominals such as 'a cat' in 'Kaline is a cat'. We would want the following qualities for example:_

_[[of John]] = [[John]]_

_[[be rich]] = [[rich]]_

_[[a cat]] = [[cat]]_

_There are various ways of making this come out. One way is to list semantically vacuous items in the lexicon as denoting the identity function of the appropriate type, for instance: _

_[[of]] = λx ε De . x_

_[[be]] = λf ε De,t . x_

_[[a]] = λf ε De,t . x_

(Heim, Kratzer, 1998)

.

As he finished typing the email, he briefly wondered whether he was doing the right thing. But – he would have to try and it would do him good to...well, see what she wanted and whether she wanted what he thought she wanted – and thought he needed. It was the right thing to do, really. He would be able to prove his theory, and at the same time, would prove that there was nothing special about Granger that he could possibly have to think about.

Besides – he had to smirk at the irony that he, as a student, planned on giving in to the possible advances of a teacher. There had been one or two Slytherin girls and one noticably from Hufflepuff who had tried to up their grade by trying to make those eyes at him. Hadn't worked, of course, had never seen the appeal of using his students like this. But this was university and he had good grades. He didn't have to work for them, didn't have to give her his body for a good one, or to pass the course. He did not need the course either way. And if this went into the direction he hoped it would go into – he would drop the class in any way.

He sat in front of his laptop, early still in the morning, and wondered when it would be appropriate to go over to talk to Aideen.

.

Draco sat and held Aideen's hand. It was all he could do under those circumstances, really. Who had given him the bloody idea to contact his father?

He had barely got up again from when he had gone back to sleep, had still been with messy hair and unshowered and in his joggies (as Aideen called them), had not even had breakfast when Mrs Callaghan had opened the front door and had let out a shriek.

A fearful shriek. Aideen had paled opposite him on the table – and he had sprung up from his chair, his wand drawn. His wards had been done perfectly – he had thought. But obviously, they did not alert if any wizard stepped through them, or he hadn't done them correctly. Still, there had been no time to even think about it.

"Draco," his father had said imperiously. "You owled me."

"Yes," he had said, choked.

"Draco?" Aideen had called from the kitchen. "Gran?"

"You will not hex me again, are you?" Mrs Callaghan had asked and Draco had looked at her, a steely glint in her eyes.

"I," his father had begun slowly and Draco knew him well enough to see that he was struggling for words.

"Yes?" Mrs Callaghan asked.

"Draco...is that your father?" Aideen had asked, had taken his hand.

His father had looked at the two of them, then back at Mrs Callaghan. "I was not in control when this curse happened."

Mrs Callaghan had snorted. "Is that an apology?"

Father had looked awfully embarrassed – but a second later, he had nodded.

"Fine, then come in for a spot of breakfast," she had said and had gestured towards the kitchen, with a last questioning glance at Draco.

They had followed slowly, him and Aideen, her still paler than usual and the rings around her eyes had not lessened any and both of them had sat down, still holding hands.

He had not expected this – and so he sat then, very surprised, that his father – Lucius Malfoy – accepted a cup of tea from Mrs Callaghan and took a deep breath.

"I understand that..." his father begun and Draco, frantically, searched his brain for a way to let him know that Aideen, so far, didn't know about magic. If he started with the entire obliviating-matter now, the cat would be out of the bag. And the wrong cat – from the wrong bag.

"Father, this is Aideen," he interrupted quickly. "I wrote you about her," he continued, trying to convey with his eyes that he didn't want him to mention magic. Or anything concerning magic.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr Malfoy," Aideen said with a smile but she looked so tired still.

"Aideen had a little problem with someone the police has yet to find," Mrs Callaghan said sharply and Draco was very, very grateful about her quick thinking.

It seemed that the knut had dropped then and his father nodded slowly. "Draco informed me."

An awkward silence fell over them and Draco only hoped his father...well, it was different from what he had expected. He hadn't expected him to react so calmly, to sit there and have a cup of tea with two Muggles and him. And him having a Muggle girlfriend. His father was not ranting, he was not throwing hexes, he was only sitting there, more or less peacefully, the pinky outstretched as he lifted the cup to his lips. He had not expected that. His father even seemed to half-smile at Mrs Callaghan and he looked quizzically at him and at Aideen. He couldn't help himself and wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to his side, pressing a kiss on her temple all the while he stared at his father challengingly.

And his father – nothing. Only the corners of his mouth that twitched ever so slightly. Like his godfather's lips when he was close to smiling or downright laughing.

That couldn't be – his father – Lucius Malfoy – being okay with him being with a Muggle. A common Muggle. Those he used to call names, those he looked down at, those he despised even though he hadn't known any of them. Of course with Mrs Callaghan, everything had changed and even more so when he had met Aideen and had fallen, head over heels in love with her. When he noticed that his godfather lived as a Muggle, that Aideen was one of the nicest, cutest, loveliest people he had ever met, that Severus had only improved by being a Muggle and that Mrs Callaghan was always there for him when she needed someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on. She had sat with him, both of them united in their worry about Aideen when she had been missing. She had made cup after cup of tea. She had sat with him, had sometimes held his hand, had sometimes just tried to smile encouragingly. She had never shown any kind of weakness even though he knew she had been just as worried as him. But she had been a strength, a stay, she had supported him when it was 'only' his girlfriend and her granddaughter.

His father though – he looked with a kind of approving on them and on Mrs Callaghan.

"Do you work somewhere?" his father asked suddenly, looking at Aideen.

"I still go to Uni," she said quietly. "And...but I don't...I usually live alone but I don't..." she looked around panicked and gripped Draco's hand tightly. They hadn't even thought about that yet. Of course she couldn't live alone. He wouldn't have that. Not at all.

"And what do you study?" asked his father, skating over her panic, ignoring it almost.

"Medicine," she said voicelessly and suddenly, Eleanor jumped up from her chair.

"Draco, Mr Malfoy, you don't mind if I take Aideen for a bit of shopping? We're all out of, erm, washing powder."

.

Hermione took a deep breath before she knocked on the door and gripped the handle. The secretary had been no problem – one look at her face and her probably determined expression and she had just waved her through and so she stood there, a speech in her head, more or less inspired by Teddy that morning.

He was a cute child. A bit picky when it came to food and he had made sure – rather carefully – that the entire banana was all around the kitchen. He had eaten marmalade-toast-soldiers though and had drunk a bit of milk. But his treatment of the Daily Prophet really had inspired her. And the solution was so simple. She and Harry and Ron, they had that kind of power.

Ron – Ron had been perfect with the baby. He had fed him, actually, it had been his idea with the toast-soldiers. It had been him who had cleaned up the banana-mess. He truly tried to make amends, to make up for the time they had lost and that was just wrong.

Yes, technically, he had broken up with her but it was only because he had beaten her to it. It wasn't because he was the bad guy and she was the good girl. It just was the right thing to do, actually. But the loss of that formerly so strong friendship had probably hit him hard – as it had hit Harry hard. She herself – she was glad to have Ron back but she couldn't deny that it was a bit awkward as well. He showed only the good side at that time – only the positive Ron and she knew that he had his bad sides. That he was short-tempered and that he would probably not always be quite so kind to Teddy.

Teddy was...well, he was a baby. He threw mashed banana around the kitchen and he tore the Daily Prophet to pieces. He smeared marmalade on the paper and on his face. Yes, he was cute and he always seemed to smirk and his hair changed colour but he was a toddler. What was she supposed to do with a toddler?

Still, he had to be credited for her idea and this would work. This always worked.

"Minister," she smiled broadly as she stepped into the office. "Your lovely secretary let me through..."

"Hermione," replied the Minister, baffled, and put a bit of parchment away.

"I wanted to apologise for yesterday. I am sorry about what I said, I was simply distraught and still very worried about my friend," she continued, sickeningly sweet. But oh, Snape would be so proud of her. She had put all the Gryffindor she had in herself behind. There was nothing remotely Gryffindorish about this. This was pure Cunning (and yes, that capital C was even in her head). This was as best as she could do.

"I understand," said the Minister friendly and gestured towards a chair and waited for her to sit down – sitting down with the most pleasant smile on her phase. "Tea, Hermione?"

"No, thank you. I just had breakfast," she replied pleasantly.

.

_I was very happy to get your email. Is this afternoon to early? If not, meet me in front of the Starbuck's on St Ann's Square at a quarter to six. _

_Love,_

_Annie_

.

"Has...the entire incident been confirmed?" asked his father slowly.

"Veritaserum, yes," Draco replied, puzzled.

"I will see what I can do with the Ministry," he drawled, then took another sip of his tea, obviously finishing his cup. "Would you mind," he said after a pause, "to refill that cup?"

Draco frowned but looked around and when he was certain that Aideen was nowhere close by, he summoned the full tea pot and refilled his father's cup.

"Father..."

"Draco, do you know why and how all those prejudices against Muggles started?" he asked slowly, spooning some sugar into his tea.

"Muggles are not as powerful as wizards are?" Draco asked, absolutely confused. "And we should rule over them because we're better?"

Father waves it off, impatiently, it seemed. "No, no, that is the prejudice today. Or the fact, depending on who you talk to. I was asking what those were based on."

He remained silent. It had been too good to be true for his father to just accept that he was with Aideen. Too bloody good to be true. Father took a deep breath and blew on the surface of his tea before he took another drink and with a soft noise, put the cup back onto the saucer. This was the good china – Draco noticed. The one that usually only came out of the cupboard on Sundays. But maybe this was like a Sunday with Aideen being alive...

"What do you think happens when a Muggle marries a Wizard?" his father asked, fixing him with his gaze.

"I..they live together, they're happy together," he replied quickly.

"In rare cases, Draco, yes. In the not so rare cases, no. Would you have considered Summoning that tea pot if that girl of yours had been near? The way I understand, she hasn't been told what you are, who you are. You're hiding yourself from her. And this is exactly where those prejudices, facts, started. A Muggle is married to a Witch or a Wizard. What happens? They live together, they're happy, yes, if they both think their equal. If a Muggle believes himself or herself to be less than the Wizard, they will never be happy. Why? No, let me finish. Because he or she does not have the gift of magic. Your Aideen would have to get up to get that tea pot, you just lounge there, raise your wand and with a spell you're taught very very early, the pot will fly into your hands. A Muggle doesn't have that possibility. In effect, they feel a little more worthless than a Wizard, especially if you do not only Summon tea pots, but do everything magically. You will always have an advantage because you can do most things faster and better than a Muggle. And there you have the prejudice or the fact that Wizardkind is better than Muggles. It was them, however, who started this, not wizards. So, if you fall in love with a Muggle, as you, obviously have done, you have a choice: either tell her about your magic or keep it a secret. The secret will work temporarily, you're proof of that. And it might continue to work – but if you have, one day, children and they start showing accidental magic, what do you do? Tell her then and risk that you're accused of lying the entire time or still keep it a secret? If you do, and even now, Draco, you are hiding who you are. You are not showing her Draco Malfoy, she only gets a side of you and that side is not even true. You Summoned that tea pot instead of getting up. You hid. You're hiding. If you tell her, you obviously risk that she won't stay with you because she's afraid of not being able to do the same things you do. And if she does stay with you, will there be resentment? Maybe not now, maybe not in a year or two but eventually. You live longer, you stay younger longer, you have better health most of the time. And she's a Muggle. She will die eventually, sooner than you, even if she inherited her grandmother's span of life..."

"Father?" Draco interrupted.

"No, Draco, do not talk while I talk. You have a choice. You can either end this quickly, or don't end this at all and have it ended for you. She's different from you. She doesn't know your world and she will never be as comfortable in it as you are. Why do you think purebloods started marrying purebloods? Not only to keep the bloodlines closed, to keep the blood pure but because both parties knew what to expect. She can't know what to expect from a future with you and neither can you from a future with her," he stood up slowly and looked at Draco. "It is your choice and you will not be blasted off the family tree if you do marry her. Those days are over but sooner or later, you will be unhappy. Your Aunt Andromeda was unhappy and she _only_ married a Muggleborn Wizard. Those are two different worlds." He nodded, "I will see if I can find your godfather and I will see what I can do at the Ministry," he said, then turned without giving Draco a chance to speak and left the house – leaving one very confused Malfoy behind.

.

"So – if you obliviate my friend Aideen, the Daily Prophet, as well as The Quibbler and any other newspaper I can find will have stories about how you use Veritaserum deliberately on everyone who crossed your path. How you cannot find a murderer within more than half a year when it cost Severus Snape all of two days. Furthermore, I have written testimony of a few of your employees that you have tortured those under suspicion of having committed a crime. It's your choice, Minister Shacklebolt. As a good citizen of the Wizarding World, I simply could not keep quiet, really."

The Minister's skin went from chocolate brown to grey in a millisecond and his eyes widened considerably. Hermione, however, knowing her plan had gone according to plan, stood up and shrugged innocently. "It's your choice, really, Minister," said she before she nodded briefly and left the office. This had been a very, very good plan – and Teddy deserved a treat for that.

.

_**Thank you for the good wishes! **_


	53. WellFormedness

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Chomsky, in_ Aspects of the Theory of Syntax, _sets up syntactic features such as CONCRETE, ANIMATE and HUMAN to account for the type of deep structure constraints he calls 'selectional restrictions'. For example, the difference between sentences like_

_[1] _

_(a) The man is sleeping_

_(b) *The salami is sleeping._

_would be accounted for in terms of the feature ANIMATE. The verb sleep would require a [+ANIMATE] subject._ Man _would be marked [+ANIMATE] and so would qualify;_ salami _would be marked [-ANIMATE] and so would not qualify. _

_McCawley has argue convincingly that selectional restrictions are semantic and not syntactic in nature. Consider: _

_[2] _

_(a) *The corpse is sleeping. _

_(b) *The dead man is sleeping. _

_(c) *The man who was killed yesterday is sleeping. _

_[3] _

_(a) The man who was killed yesterday but was magically brought back to life is sleeping. _

_(b) The man who will be killed tomorrow is sleeping._

_The well-formedness of these sentences depends on semantic properties of the entire noun phrase rather than on syntactic properties of the head noun. _

(Lakoff, 1971)

.

Eleanor wore a deep, worrying frown on her face. Draco had pulled Aideen out of the house, right after breakfast, to go to the shops and they hadn't returned yet, and it had been two hours. She was very worried. Yes, technically she knew that Draco would do his damnedest to protect her and that the woman who had abducted her was locked away but it didn't stop her from worrying. It was only some milk they needed and two hours for that seemed a bit long. Draco knew well enough that she would go after him with her dressmaker's shears if he and Aideen indulged in, well, that sort of thing.

But quite honestly, she didn't believe he was up to that – something had happened with his father the morning before. She couldn't quite put her finger on it and Draco hadn't seemed to be ready to talk about it yet. He had emerged, without his father, from the kitchen a while later, and had then gone over to Severus's house, his face pale and pinched. He had come back quite late, after lunch (and she hadn't been able to coax either one out of Severus's house), after her afternoon tea, and just before supper. Had still been pale. Had picked at his food and had then excused himself and gone to bed early.

And to be frank, that was the last thing her granddaughter needed – a boyfriend who was withdrawn and unhappy and had something on his mind and would only talk to Severus.

Who, in turn had left his house just after Draco had returned to hers. Odd, all of that.

Her money to explain his weird behaviour was naturally on his father. It had started then at least and there must have been something which he had said that had greatly disturbed the boy. She couldn't form an opinion on the man. First, he had almost killed her, then there had been silence and absolutely no interest in his child, even though he had been injured (she had to give him that, but even an invalid could write a letter). Now he had obviously returned for something which had broken Draco's equilibrium so quickly after Aideen's abduction. But Draco's father was so...she didn't know. He had seemed perfectly pleasant, very polite and nothing like the Muggle-hater Severus and Draco had both told her about.

Worst was though, that she hadn't even been able to ask Severus. He had still be gone at about nine in the evening when she had knocked on his door. Without telling her where he went. Didn't they understand that she worried more now? That she hadn't been able to sleep until she had seen him return home in the dim light of the street-lamps? Of course they didn't understand. But it was still inconsiderate of Severus to return at two at night and being gone all evening long without telling her that he would be gone or that it would take longer. Whatever 'it' was.

She didn't care, really. But she was still glaring at him now that he sipped a cup of tea on her table. Had come over on his own, she hadn't even had to drag him; she would have. Didn't want to worry about them anymore, wanted to know where they were at all times. And now she only knew that Severus was at her kitchen-table. She could keep an eye on him. Not on the other two.

Yes, yes, it was wrong and controlling and almost all of them were almost grown up but...it had been hell. She didn't want to go through with it anymore. Her heart couldn't take it.

She bit her lip and sat down as well, looking at him, then rubbed her hand over her face. Her eyes hurt.

"My husband fought in the second World War," she began.

"I know," replied Severus, looking bewildered.

"We were bombed during the Blitz," she swallowed, "my husband went to fight the Germans after that and I remained in London. We lived in London at the time and came up here after the war. But that's beside the point. I was in a constant state of worry. We were newly wed, I didn't want him to go somewhere and wanted to know that he safe and alright and preferably sleeping next to me at night. I loved him so." She shook her head sadly, tiredly. Severus still looked bewildered – and puzzled and she softened her features into a smile. "I never knew from day to day where he was, and of course he sent postcards but every time the door bell rang, I thought it was someone telling me he had fallen. I don't think it was rational but you just thought he might just...the chance was there and it was a big chance."

He looked at her and she took his hand across the table and held it in hers.

"When Aideen was taken, that old fear came back. I didn't think I could bear it, I was so worried..."

"Do you want me to look where Drac..."

She shook her head. "No. I know he will take care of her. But when you leave the house before supper and return at two at night, I worry," she said steadily. She had to address this. He would probably dislike it – or hate it – but she had to get this out. Had to explain that she worried about him. That she loved him. And that yes, she was an overbearing person who loved too much and worried too much.

The tips of his ears were bright pink and he stared at her. "I worry about you. That man was here yesterday morning, Draco's father, and I don't trust him. I know Draco went over to yours and he probably poured his heart out to you. But this man tried to kill me and I know you had dealings with him in the past. I thought you'd...I don't know what I thought, maybe that you'd gone after him because Draco was so depressed, I don't know. But I was worried, more than you can imagine because...I can't lose you, Severus. You've grown so close to me and I love you as if you were one of my own. And they're all so far away and then you take off at night and with Aideen..." she pulled her hand from his and hid her face in both of them.

She sat, her elbows on the table, her face buried in her hands, not wanting to cry because this was really no crying matter.

"Eleanor," whispered Severus and warm fingers touched hers after a moment. "I was with...someone and not with Malfoy. I wasn't in any kind of danger."

Her head shot up from her hands – and she stared at him, wondering if he had really just said what he had said.

.

No, the toddler didn't annoy her. Teddy played happily on the carpet, babbling whatever was on his mind without caring if someone heard him. She had left the Minister absolutely dumbstruck, had achieved what she had wanted to achieve and Ron and Harry had gone out to buy food without her nagging. That it left her to babysit little Ted – oh well. He was happy enough on the carpet and it was spelled so he couldn't pull pieces out and shove them in his mouth. Apart from the bright coloured hair, he was a normal boy, really. Sweet, when he smiled at her from time to time and babbled.

She couldn't quite bring herself yet to talk to him. It was just strange talking to a child and what did she know about children anyway? He was happy enough and Harry and Ron provided all the conversation he needed for the time being. Until she got used to having to talk to a child. She would, eventually, since this truly appeared to be permanent and the boy, honestly, needed someone serious in his life. Yes, it was fun to teach Ted how to make a mess of his egg for breakfast but that wasn't all he needed to know in life. And knowing the boys, she would have to be the sensible one even though...Harry had scolded him when the messing had gone out of hand. And then Ron had scolded Ted and Harry and she had been the one to wave her wand and clean it all up. Boys.

And now she didn't only live with two but with three. That, she hadn't signed up for. But uni was close and she could spend her days there. And check up on Aideen and Draco and Snape and see that all of them were alright. And yes, she had for the second night in a row, dreamed about Snape and his hand on her stomach and his leg...well. She should think about Aideen and about what was done to Mrs Tonks. Poor woman should be given help instead of being Kissed. Had probably never had the chance of talking about her losses. Of getting over the unbearable pain of mourning. Someone should have talked to her or should have offered professional help. Not letting her deal with it on her own. Irresponsible.

The entire Wizarding World and their leaders acted irresponsibly. She almost wished Shacklebolt would try to obliviate Aideen and then she, and probably the Weasleys as well (Harry had said that Arthur Weasley wasn't too happy with the way the Ministry had dealt with the entire thing and many other things). Or, even if he didn't, a coup d'etat wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

"My-Oh-Neeee," the child cried out loud and Hermione looked up from her musings. Next to Ted, an owl sat on the carpet and her eyes widened. She hadn't paid attention and the owl could have...she sprang up from her chair and snatched up the toddler from the floor and held him tight to her chest.

"My-Oh-Neeee," he wailed and pointed at the owl.

She grimaced, "Did the owl hurt you, Ted?"

The boy began to cry and pushed his head against her shoulder, buried his face deeply there and his little sticky fingers tangled in her hair and pulled – painfully.

"Noooo, My-Oh-Neeee," he cried and something wet trickled down her neck. Oh, she hoped he wasn't slobbering. Was it called slobbering with children? But – something kicked in inside and she found herself slowly stroking his back, soothing him while glaring at the owl.

"Shall we see what it brought?" she asked and forgot that she was talking to a toddler, forgot that she had him on her arm and that her neck was probably full of baby-spit. She understood somehow, that he had been merely afraid of the owl or that the owl had scared him and he had called for...well, her. My-Oh-Neeee could be construed at least as Hermione.

She bent down with the child in her arms and petted the owl gently. "See Ted? It's harmless, it only delivers mail. It doesn't hurt you." The boy looked up at her and his hair was adorably brown (like her own hair) and his eyes brown and full of unshed tears and a bit of snot dangled from his nose. She grimaced again, summoned a handkerchief and wiped his nose and earned a watery smile.

"Do you want to pet the owl?" she asked, smiling and brushing a tear from his cheek, brushing his hair back.

"No," he replied simply.

"Then we only get the letter," she laughed and just after she summoned a treat for the owl, she pulled the letter from it's foot. "Oh, Ted, it looks like someone deems it necessary to contact me personally."

.

Aideen just shook her head over and over again. She stared at him with wide, open eyes and shook her head. She almost looked like she had the moment Severus had brought her down the street – only less tired. She just stood there for long, long minutes, stared and shook her head.

It had been an utterly idiotic idea to take her out for a walk along the old muddy river and to try and talk to her. He should have sat her down with a glass of whiskey or something else and should have told her there. Maybe should have asked for Mrs Callaghan's help. Or Severus's help. He had offered, after all. He had told him to break the news gently and to take care of her nerves. To wait a bit. But no, he had not been able to wait, he had to make sure that she still...liked him, even if he was different.

And she didn't. She stood, stared, then walked away. Just turned her back to him. Left him standing there next to that bloody moody river. He should have just listened to Severus and not himself. His godfather knew better. He had always known better. And he was still so arrogant to think that he knew better. He didn't. He...wanted to run after her but he couldn't. His father had been right. How could he have lived in that bubble?

In that bubble of thinking that he would be better off with kind Mrs Callaghan and lovely Aideen? He didn't belong there. He...

Draco swallowed around the lump in his throat and closed his eyes. He didn't belong there. He didn't.

A moment later, a faint crack could be heard and Draco stood no longer near the muddy, bloody river but felt himself squeezed through a tube and appeared, only a second later, in front of the house that he had once called his home.

.

"Well?" Eleanor asked and he felt his ears grow hot again. Just because this woman and her nosey streak had a trauma from being a war-wife...but she loved him, he knew. It had been a warm, fuzzy feeling in his stomach when he had realised that particular fact. She was worried because – well – as strange as that sounded – she loved him. She held his hand and she squeezed it tightly and occasionally, she even hugged him. She touched him and she loved him. She loved him like he was one of hers. That was clear. It was just clear. And he couldn't even tell her the truth.

"Gran!" he was interrupted – luckily – by Aideen and Eleanor, with worry at the tone of her voice etched into her features again, stood up so quickly that her chair clattered to the floor and Severus only truly understood at that moment. If he had told that he would go out to dinner with someone and that there was the possibility that he would come home later, she wouldn't have sat up to wait for him.

Sat up to wait for him. Oh, that had happened before but not out of worry. Definitely never out of worry. He shook his head. Aideen sounded aggravated and he could guess why. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy. That wasn't the sort of news anyone broke just like that. Idiotic dunderhead.

"Severus, is that true?" she was suddenly next to him, her eyes bloodshot and teary. She punched his arm with her good one and stared at him with such desperate viciousness in her eyes that he knew Draco had told her. Stupid boy.

"I don't know what he told you," he said calmly and gripped her wrist to stop her from punching him further.

"He's a wizard and it was his aunt who did this to me?" she cried, wildly.

"Yes," he just replied.

"Because of him? This happened because of him? Wizards?" tears seeped into her eyes, leaked out and her breathing hitched and suddenly, she threw herself at him – not punching but hugging him and crying into his chest and holding tightly on to him.

.


	54. Adjacency Pairs

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_Despite differences in style, most speakers seem to find a way to cope with the everyday business of social interation. They are certainly helped in this process by the fact that there are many almost automatic patterns in the structure of conversation. Some clear examples are the greetings and goodbyes shown below: _

_Anna: Hello_

_Bill: Hi. _

_Anna: How are you?_

_Bill: Fine. _

_Anna. See you!_

_Bill: Bye. _

_These automatic sequences are called adjacency pairs. They always consist of a first part and a second part, produced by different speakers. The utterance of a first part immediately creates an expectation of the utterance of a second part of the same pair. Failure to produce the second part in response will be treated as a significant absence and hence meaningful. There is substantial variation in the forms which are used to fill the slots in adjacency pairs, as shown below but there must always be two parts. (A being the first part, B the second part)_

_A: What's up. _

_B: Nothing much. _

_A: How's it going?_

_B: Jus' hangin' in there. _

_A: How are things?_

_B: The usual. _

_A: How ya doin'?_

_B: Can't complain. _

_(Yule, 1996)_

.

"What happened?" Eleanor asked gently as Aideen still clung to him, sobbed into his shirt, dug her hands into his shoulder blades, her hair tickling his nose and his chin. A pitiful sob escaped her throat and Severus had to grip her arms as nicely as he could and pull her away. She was a sight to behold. Snot on her nose (and probably on his shirt), tears leaking from her eyes, red blotches on her cheeks, her mouth open to gulp in air as that seemed impossible with her clogged up nose.

"I think," Severus said slowly, seeing that Aideen was in not state to speak, that Aideen was too busy even filling her lungs with air, "that Draco has told her that he's a Wizard."

"Y-y-y-you kn-kn-knew?" it was a mistake saying it like this. Big mistake – and one Severus noticed too late. She would...oh, she would be disappointed. She would hurt even more, knowing that her grandmother had basically been in on the secret. Her red-rimmed, swollen, puffy eyes turned on her grandmother and Eleanor did the only, probably, sensible thing she could do. She pulled the girl to her, pulled her in her arms and trapped her there.

"Severus's mother told me and made me promise not to tell anyone," whispered Eleanor into her granddaughter's ear, just loud enough for Severus to hear and he admired her ability to fib at a time like this. "I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to, love. It was Draco's story to tell you."

Aideen was trapped in Eleanor's arms, couldn't escape even if she did struggle and even if Severus could see Eleanor wince more than once as the girl hit her with her cast. "Severus, get me a bit of brandy, please," she said even softer than before and nodded her head towards the living room and the tiny cabinet full of liquor bottles he knew about. He fetched the alcohol quickly, pondering how Draco could have acted so rashly. If he had only waited a bit, if he had only stopped to think instead of acting like a Gryffindor in love, all of this wouldn't have been happened. Aideen would have been spared this further shock. And Draco – that boy had probably...he was still out. Hopefully still sitting around outside somewhere, feeling miserable and not attempting another foolish thing. He had not heard the entire story – of course not, he hadn't been there – but he knew that Lucius had something to do with it. Well. Draco had only said that his father had explained that there could be difficulties in making a Muggle-WIzard relationship work. And if his godson had listened to his father – had broken the news to her like this and seeing that she had been afraid, or shocked, or scared, even more so by the fact that it had been a witch, one of them, who had kept her in that dungeon, who had hurt her like this, he would have...

If his old 'friend' had told Draco that he did not belong there – and if Draco had seen Aideen's reaction as a sort of proof of this thesis...oh Merlin. If Draco had gone back to his father...must have been his plan all along. He would naturally want his son back in his house, back at his childhood home and not living with some old Muggle woman. He would want Draco to uphold traditions, to marry accordingly to their standards, to be the good heir, the good son he had been for the first fifteen or so years of his life. Draco had destroyed that by moving in with Eleanor, had shattered Lucius's view of the world into a million little pieces by falling in love with Aideen. And Lucius, the way he knew Lucius, would want to re-educate him. Would not stop short of...a sort of brainwash. And Aideen had played right along with that.

If he had only waited. Waited for him to be there, waited for Eleanor to be there. Waited until they had a plan, anything instead of rushing into this...if he had only done the right thing.

He watched, absently, as Eleanor gave her granddaughter brandy, basically forcing it down her throat. That girl needed sleep and relaxation, not alcohol but he supposed that this was maybe the right way to get her to calm down at least a little.

And as soon as she slept, he could, if he dared to leave Eleanor alone with that girl, at least have some sort of relaxation of his own as well.

.

_Miss Granger,_

_we will not obliviate Draco Malfoy's girlfriend and victim of Andromeda Tonks. She however needs to speak in front of the Wizengamot, or at least a delegation of the Wizengamot since there has formed a rather strong alliance against the use of Veritaserum and it will not be longer be used in court to get a confession. You can inform your friend Arthur Weasley that interference like that is not appreciated. The way he, and you, acted is shameful. _

_Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic_

Hermione looked at the baby in her arms. "What did Mr Weasley do?" he asked. "Do you know? Of course you don't know, you're a child," she rolled her eyes at the toddler, then smiled when he gave her one of his own, beaming ones. "You know what we do, Ted? We wait for your goddaddy and Ron and then we will ask them and then I will go to see Aideen and Draco and if your goddaddy and Ron have no clue what I'm talking about, I'll have to brave the Burrow, I suppose. Good plan, isn't it, Ted?"

Ted – and she refused to use Teddy, the boy ought to know his real name – gurgled happily and pulled on her hair, hard. "Ouch, Ted, that's my hair, not a toy. And there I thought that having it cut would stop all the mess done about my hair. Obviously not," she sighed. Talking to a child wasn't that bad altogether. It was really like being allowed, officially, to talk to oneself and that, per se, wasn't bad. Not bad at all. She grinned at the child and hugged him to her chest before she sat him on her lap and tried to focus on what needed to be done before she started university in three days only.

.

He took a deep breath. He belonged there, not in some dingy part of Manchester. He belonged into that house. He had grown up in that house. A part of his family was there. He was no Muggle. He had no business owning a tool box. He had no business to have a relationship with a Muggle. He wasn't supposed to be hugged by an old Muggle woman. He wasn't supposed to be hugged at all. He was an adult. He was all grown up.

He was a Malfoy. He didn't mix with Muggles. He had traditions of his own to uphold, customs that were utterly unknown to anyone not being a pureblood or an assimilated half-blood. He had absolutely no business in the Muggle world.

Working at a shop for clothes – what had he been thinking? Being enchanted by the novelty, probably. A late phase of puberty, wanting to rebel against his parents. Wearing Muggle clothing.

He had been confused after the war. A war their side had lost. He was naturally confused. Naturally. It was all natural. Now that he had this brief thing in the Muggle world, he would appreciate even more what the Wizarding World, his world of purebloodedness and house elves and magic offered him.

He was a Malfoy. Malfoys belonged in mansions not terraced houses.

He stepped into the house, a house elf he couldn't remember ever seeing – they had sold all but one – greeting him with flapping earss.

"I's Gauli, Master Draco," the elf said.

"Not an interesting fact," he drawled arrogantly and looked around, ignoring the elf further, who bowed and seemed almost agitated. The foyer looked the same as it had when he had left – apart from one moving painting right there. His father, his grandfather and him, aged, probably, two and a half. He ignored that painting as well even though it was rather strange to see himself, as a little boy, move in the painting (and he hadn't known this was possible). He looked at himself, Muggle clothes. That would never do.

"Draco," his head snapped up and he saw his father standing in the door between the foyer and the library.

"Father," he said back, in the same, bored tone his father had used. He nodded sharply and without another glance at his surroundings or himself, he walked, slowly as it was the custom with Malfoy-men up the stairs to his old room. There would be decent clothes again. Robes and cloaks and crisp shirts, ironed by house elves. Trousers with creases so sharp one needn't bother with a knife. Custom made shoes and real socks matching the trousers and the robes and the shirt. Normal clothes.

He was a Malfoy, he belonged into this house. This was his world, this was where he was supposed to be. But why did his chest hurt like that?

.

She broke out in a bright, beaming smile when she opened the door to her flat and let him in. It was awkward even though he had been in there before. Well, he hadn't seen that much of the flat the night before. He had seen the hallway and the bedroom and the bathroom. He hadn't seen more.

"Hello Severus," she whispered softly and pressed a brief kiss on his lips. On his lips. Without having to prompt her, or without having to make her, she kissed him. Well, she had kissed him before. Plenty of times the night before. Had stopped counting after the first dozen. It was a miracle on its own.

She didn't seem to pretend anything. She had seemed genuinely happy to see him the night before to dinner. She had seemed genuinely interested in what he had told her about his other papers for university, what classes he was taking, knowing he would not take hers if that night progressed where it seemed to be headed right from the start. And where it had ended.

Hell, in the beginning he had thought it was only...well, that she was playing games with him, and that he needed proof that he would never in his life lay hands on a woman again. Much less bare hands on a bare woman's skin. But as she had reached over the table to grasp his cold fingers and as she had smiled while doing it, he had known this was no joke. Not that it wasn't surprising. It was absolutely, stunningly, terribly, horrifyingly surprising. She had touched him. Of her own free will, with her hand on his and a bit later, their fingers entwined on the white tablecloth in that restaurant. She had beamed at him and smiled at him, and had laughed with him, or at his jokes and her entire body had leant, it had seemed towards him even when there had been a table between them.

And then, well, they had left the restaurant and he was convinced that he would have to go out a few more times with her before...but that hadn't happened. The moment they had stood together on the dark street, she had looked around, almost furtively, and seeing that nobody was about, she had flung her arms around his neck and barely a second later, he had her tongue in his mouth. Oh, he hadn't minded. It had been, well, surprising. And exhilarating. And arousing. Very, very arousing and he had, from that moment on, functioned on a lesser level. He hadn't quite lost his head and hadn't been quite capable of keeping it. He had let her take him to her place. To her bedroom and to her bed. The rest was, well, history.

Had left with her making hopeful eyes, asking him to return the day after and he had replied with a non-committal, 'we'll see.'

And he had. Just because it was too surprising to be true. Have a woman touch him voluntarily and without her misjudging her apparition or her thinking of him as a surrogate son. A thirty-five year old woman who smiled at him and who touched him. Intimately. And not so intimately. Who seemed to have fun touching him and who seemed to consider it fun being touched by him. Miracle.

"Good evening," he said stiffly, making a mental note to dis-enrol from her class. It would be utter nonsense to stay in it and make her grade him objectively, even if those two nights remained just that – two nights.

He knew he was a pig. He knew he didn't feel much towards that woman. He maybe, by now, liked her a bit and she was intelligent and the conversations so far (after that disastrous first) had been adequate. Plus, she touched him voluntarily.

She flung her arms, as she had done the night before when they had exited that restaurant, around his neck and kissed him. Again. Voluntarily. Him. Severus Snape. He didn't have to be told twice. When he saw an opportunity, he took it, naturally, and kissed her back.

.

"I'm happy to see you here again," said Mrs Weasley and squeezed Hermione's upper arm affectionately. Whether her statement was true or not, Hermione didn't know and in all honesty, she liked ignorance on that particular aspect. She had gone to the Burrow because the boys had been clueless and because she was curious what Mr Weasley had done to the Minister. What kind of thing they were plotting – or had plotted.

"I'm happy to be back," she replied politely and focused her eyes on Mr Weasley sitting across from her, grinning into his tea cup.

"I think I know why you're here," said he with a smirk.

"Oh?" she asked, barely able to hide her own grin.

"A certain letter from a certain person told you that I had a little hand in making sure Veritaserum isn't handed out like sherbet lemons were from a certain other person," he winked at her. "Correct?"

She nodded, looking at the man whom she had liked quite a long time. Who had always treated her fairly. Who had always been kind to her. "I'm curious, Mr Weasley, you should know that."

"Arthur, what did you do?" asked Mrs Weasley, planting herself too close to Hermione for her comfort.

"You know what I did," he chuckled. "You hosted the occasion."

"Oh that," she smiled at him and stood up again. "Well, if it's only that, I'll make supper. Will you stay, Hermione-dear?"

"Erm...if that's okay, yes, why not. Thank you."

"Oh, it's nothing. Charlie will be here as well and you two haven't seen one another in a long time, have you?"

She looked around a bit startled, but shook her head. "No, not for a while."

"Good then," Mrs Weasley said and winked and left towards the kitchen. Hermione shook off her confusion and concentrated on why she had come.

"What did you do?" she asked quickly but Mr Weasley wouldn't be rushed. He leant back in his chair and laced his fingers together of his growing belly.

"I invited a few people whom I know have suffered from the use of Veritaserum. Those brought others they knew about who had been dosed with it. Quite a few, actually. People in high positions at the Ministry these days are only hired if they submit to questioning under that devil's draught and promotions are only to be had if you agree as well. It's disgraceful. They act as if that potion alone could tell them everything about a person. Anyway... It snowballed from there. More people came and in the end, it was decided to put a petition before the Wizengamot. Not even the Minister can overrule that and since quite a few members of that honoured body have been humiliated while being drugged, it was absolutely no trouble," he smirked. "Use of Veritaserum is now illegal and manufacturing of it is severely punished."

"But...there was absolutely nothing in the Prophet," she stuttered.

"Of course not. And it was rather brilliant of you to blackmail the Minister with spilling the beans to the press when you did, since it was just after the verdict of the Wizengamot. If you had gone through with it – since you wanted to protect your friend, right? – it wouldn't have only become common knowledge that Veritaserum is used to question suspects, but I'm sure someone would have dug deeper and would have revealed the entire story. And it can't be good for the Minister. He'd be out of office before he could say office," he chuckled.

Hermione just stared at him. It all made sense. Well, almost all made sense. "Do you want him to continue being Minister?"

Mr Weasley shrugged. "We'll see about that. I don't think I have the kind of power t make sure he doesn't stay in office and I cannot guarantee a better person for it. And if he can do without Veritaserum, he might not be too bad. We'll have to give it a bit of time but we'll keep an eye on him."

She could only shake her head. This wasn't quite what she had expected from the kind man. This was almost revolutionary.

.

_**Now is the time to throw rocks at me. But let me put on my rock-repellent suit and helmet first, please. **_


	55. This Is Not A Pipe

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**.**_

_**If you still read the theoretical parts and if you do not know Magritte's painting of the pipe, please look at this first: **_

_**http: / en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ File: MagrittePipe. jpg (without the blank spaces, naturally).**_

_._

_Magritte's drawing is as simple as a page borrowed from a botanical manual: a figure and the text that names it. Nothing is easier to recognize than a pipe, drawn thus; nothing is easier to say – our language knows it well in our place – than the 'name of a pipe.' Now, what lends to the figure its strangeness is not the 'contradiction' between the image and the text. For a good reason: Contradiction could exist only between two statements, or within one and the same statement. Here there is clearly but one, and it cannot be contradictory because the subject of the proposition is a simple demonstrative. False then, because its 'referent' – obviously a pipe – does not verify it? But who would seriously contend tht the collection of intersecting lines above the text_ is _a pipe? Must we say: My God, how simpleminded! The statement is perfectly true since it is quite apparent that the drawing representing the pipe is not the pipe itself. And yet there is a convention of language: What is this drawing? Why, it is a calf, a square, a flower. An old custom not without basis, because the entire function of so scholarly, so academic a drawing is to elicit recognition, to allow the object it represents to appear without hesitation or equivocation. No matter that it is the material deposit, on a sheet of paper of a blackboard, of a little graphite or a thin dust of chalk. It does not 'aim' like an arrow or a pointer towards a particular pipe in the distance of elsewhere. It_ is _a pipe. _

(Foucault, 1983)

.

Annie did, naturally, ask questions – but Severus was unable, unwilling to answer her. He had told her an outline of his life. Had taught, had left the position because he wanted a change and had then ended in his old hometown again, going back to University. She had, that night, asked about the scars on his back and especially the one on his neck and what was he supposed to say? That they were a blend of his father's belt, Wizard's wands and a poisonous, enormous, magical snake? But instead of lying, or making up a story, he turned on his back and looked into her eyes as she loomed over him, her hands on his chest and said. "I don't want to talk about that." Miraculously, she had made a kind of emphatic face, had kissed him chastely on the cheek and had said, "Alright."

Annie Deveney was more that he had thought she would be, he thought as he lay there with her half on him. She excepted when he said that he did not want to talk and she didn't ask question after question after that. She just accepted his decision, probably hoping that one day, he would tell her.

And maybe, he thought, he would, one day. And while he was unable to love, maybe he would grow to like her more and feel some sort of affection. Love grew out of the strangest places, the strangest couples; he had seen it often enough in the Wizarding World that those arranged marriages which everyone condemned to fail, were those that seemed to be the most loving, most affectionate. He slowly stroked Annie's arm and she smiled up at him. He could possibly grow to like her more, to feel affection for her – and if he'd be any another man, he could possibly begin to love her. Such as it was – love was something he neither wanted nor could ever feel again, he was certain of that. At least not towards a woman, even if she was as like Annie.

He slowly took her hand from his chest, then rolled over and stood up from her bed.

"You're leaving?" asked his former professor, stretching languidly.

"Yes," he replied immediately. He would most definitely not sleep in her bed. Not with her by his side. Who knew if he was plagued by a nightmare – of heaven forbid, if he spoke in his sleep. Would be hard to explain, that. No, he had a wonderful bed at home which he could use all on his own, in which he didn't have to pay attention to what he did while he slept. Her expression was – disappointed – and so he bent down, knowing he would have to do something, and kissed her as softly as he could. She smiled, her eyes closed.

"Do I see you tomorrow?"

"We'll see," he said simply and went to get dressed.

.

"Hermione!" Charlie cried as she was about to apparate back home from the Burrow.

"Yes?" she turned around and wanted to apparate as quickly as possibly. Molly was not the subtlest of persons. She had turned on the matchmaking-force full blast and Charlie obviously seemed to respond. Not her. Charlie was...what was the word...too metro-sex for her. Too David Beckham and not enough Sean Connery. Too Brad Pitt and not enough George Clooney. Besides...

"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asked and she sighed and frowned at the same time. She couldn't tell him that she disliked his looks and that she couldn't handle being with someone, or even doing out with someone who always either smelled faintly like dragons or some uber-masculine perfume. And since he had begun to use Muggle hairproducts (or so it looked like)...no. But that was what the besides was for anyway.

"Charlie, no. It would be weird. I went out with Ron, and even if it was briefly, we went out and we were a couple and it would be just strange to go out with you," she grimaced. "Sorry."

Too Gilderoy and not enough Snape. He could work with dragons all he wanted, he was a pretty boy and he knew it. And pretty boys...no.

"Ah well, was worth a shot," he smiled, nodded and with a quick good-bye, turned towards the Burrow again and walked away. Hermione on the other hand stood rooted on the spot for a while before composing herself enough to apparate. Charlie was a good bloke, if one liked that sort of thing. The dangerous handler of beasts with the perfect long hair. No, not her type at all. The image of Snape popped up briefly in her head but she tried her best to push it away. Fantasising about him wouldn't help at all anymore. She had gone over it in her head and he hadn't wanted to touch her. He just had, it was like running into someone. It was nobody's fault but her misjudge apparition's. She wouldn't think about it any more. It had just happened, she had been embarrassed and that was the end of it.

And she certainly wasn't desperate enough to go out with Charlie Weasley, the pseudo-dangerous type who seemed to use conditioner for his hair and who seemed to only get dirty because some women liked that sort of thing. Oh well, maybe she was seeing this wrong. Maybe he wasn't like that at all – but no, she didn't want to find out either.

.

_I've gone back home. _

Draco slowly tied his note to the owl's foot. His godfather would have just to accept that his godson was a wizard and used wizard means of communication. Not that he could use a computer there. Not that he had one. Not that he knew how to get stamps in the next village and Merlin only knew how long the Royal Mail would take to get the letter there. And it was rather important after all. He couldn't let them think he had been kidnapped as well. No, he had just gone where he belonged. There was no reason to worry.

"Master Draco, Master Draco, Master Lucius says dinner is served," the elf knocked carefully on his door which he had closed immediately upon arrival. He had changed, he had sat down at his desk and he had tried to push the pain in his chest away.

He got up heavily, his legs feeling like clay and his head and stomach hurting when he thought about what an elf might have cooked and that Eleanor had wanted to make cottage pie for them that evening before he determinedly pushed all the thoughts of Eleanor and his godfather and that girl out of his head and followed the tiny elf down the stairs.

The table was set as it had ever been, the only exception being that there were now only two places set and not three as it had been custom, and normal, with his mother there. But she was gone as well, Merlin knew where exactly.

"Draco," his father said coldly and he could see him sitting stiffly and very pompously at the head of the table. And what a huge table it was. Nobody would ever bump elbows with anyone else at that table.

"Father," he replied and sat down as well, the seat he had occupied ever since he could remember. He didn't know what else to say to that man sitting there, the man he called father. He had no clue whether his father had expected him, or wanted him there. And his father, sitting there and staring at his plate, obviously needed a moment to think about what he wanted to tell him as well.

The silence lasted all through the first and the fish course and only when there was roast on the table, his father looked up at him and as he put his knife and fork away, he seemed to want to open his mouth to speak but Draco decided that he might as well just beat him to it.

"I explained her what I am and you were right," said he, tiredly and stared at his potatoes. A mundane meal, really.

His father, oddly enough, didn't say a word, he just resumed eating, not looking at him, focusing in his food and Draco was rather confused. This was not like his father at all.

.

Eleanor took a deep breath before she knocked on Severus's door. She had seen him come in and it wasn't as late as it had been the night before. It was still midnight though and once more, she hadn't been able to sleep. Yes, she was too nosey but the moment he had seemed to want to open up and tell her more earlier, Aideen had stumbled in. That girl was in bed now, sleeping, dosed with a bit too much brandy maybe. And Draco was still gone. Why did people forget that she was easily worried? Especially after events like that? With Aideen and her arm in a cast and still shivering from time to time and needing a nightlight again, even though she had refused to use it from age three.

He opened the door only a moment later and was confused. "Is there something wrong?" he asked, ushering her in.

"Is Draco with you?"

He took a deep, quite audible breath and waved his hand towards the kitchen.

"Severus?" she asked again.

"He's gone back to his father."

"His father?" Eleanor asked, shocked.

"Yes, and his father..." he shook his head. "The letter is on the table."

"What letter?" asked she, sitting down on one of his chairs, waiting for him to explain.

"This one," he said slowly and she took it between her fingers, feeling the parchment. Parchment.

_Severus,_

_my son has returned home and all I know is that he has told that girlfriend of his that he is a Wizard and she obviously hasn't taken this well. I do not know whether you have talked to him before, or if she truly does not accept what he is but I would like to know what is exactly going on. My son was happy with that girl, was he not? Why does he give it up? Did he take what I said too seriously? _

_Of course I do want him to marry someone who knows our traditions, our customs but do not think (and I know you will) that I made him tell her, or tried to persuade him to come back here. I do want him back here since the house was empty with him and Narcissa gone but he is merely sulking in his room and did not eat. _

_You are one of my oldest friends, Severus, and I would ask you to come and talk to him. _

_Best wishes,_

_Lucius_

Eleanor frowned. "Does he mean that?"

Severus did something she had never seen him do before. Not even as a child and certainly not as an adult. He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, Eleanor. It is late and I am tired and I do not know whether this is another one of his Slytherin-plots. Whether he truly only wants Draco to be happy or if there is a bigger picture. Lucius was always scheming but I cannot honestly see what he could possibly want."

"And that means?"

"It means that I will go and find out," said he quietly.

"No," she shook her head. "What if this is a trap? What if he only wants to lure you there and just wants to finish what his sister-in-law didn't manage?"

"Then I will be prepared."

"I'm going with you," she said stubbornly.

"You most certainly won't."

"I will. I will not let you run into danger like that."

"Have you forgot what he did to you? I haven't," he growled.

"No, of course I haven't forgot but have you? You don't have magic anymore, Severus and if he wants to hurt you, he will."

"He won't. I will be prepared."

"What with? A gun? A rifle?" she took his hand and squeezed it tightly. "You will not go on your own. Take Hermione, for all I care but take someone and don't go alone." Eleanor sighed, "I'd feel safer if you didn't go on your own."

He said nothing but she felt him, or thought she felt him, squeezing her hand back before she busied himself making some tea putting a cup in front of her. She only watched him, and he seemed to walk a bit lighter, a bit happier, a bit...different. There was something different. And she would get to the bottom of it. And the way he walked...the way he smirked a little when he thought she couldn't see...well, that only left one conclusion.

"Now that that's cleared up," she stated, the cup of tea in her hands, "Do you want to tell me about your girlfriend?"

.

_**Thank you for your reviews, reading, your opinions etc. I'm truly grateful!**_

_**Lucius, eh? Good or bad? I'd love to hear what you think but you know that, don't you?  
**_

_**I've got good news for me and bad news for you...my current workplace (the supermarket) finally lets me work a bit more, 20 hours a week instead of 12 and that means that from next week on, I'll be at work on Mondays as well. If I cannot update on those Mondays, I'm really sorry...(but it means more money for me!)**_


	56. Indirect Speech Acts

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Although I am going to claim that the yes-no questions to be discussed in the present paper, too, are interpretable as indirect speech acts, the yes-no questions that people usually treat under the heading of indirect speech acts are of the following type: _

_(1)_

_(a) Can you pass the salt?_

_(b) Have you got change for a dollar?_

_(c) Would you kindly get off my foot? _

_(d) Would you mind not making so much noise?_

_Such questions are indirect requests: the speaker wants the hearer to do something. That is (1) (a)-(d) are requests for actions, consequently no verbal response is required. Under normal circumstances, it would even be inappropriate to answer questions such as (1) (a)-(d) by 'yes' or 'no'. _

_There are also cases where yes-no questions are requests for information. _

_Consider:_

_(2)_

_(a) Can you give me some kind of idea of that conversation? _

_(b) Can you describe him to us?_

_(c) Will you give me the date when you last saw your wife?_

_(d) Can you tell me when the next train leaves?_

_Once again, a plain 'yes' as an answer to (2) (a)-(d) would be utterly inadequate and a plain 'no' may be impolite in certain situations. _

(Kiefer, 1980)

.

There had been few occasions in his life when Severus had felt truly gobsmacked. The moment Albus had told him that he would have to be killed – by him – had been one of those. The moment his mother had died had been another one. In retrospect, the moment his wand had been snapped had been one – even though it was less gobsmackedness and more...absolute disbelief and utter shock. But yes, few moments when he had been gobsmacked.

And this was certainly one of them even though...he did try to conceal it.

Girlfriend. Girlfriend. Girlfriend.

He had no girlfriend. He had...someone to go to in the evenings and someone he had come to like a little and someone who was a comfort and was willing to give so much even though she knew so little. Who wanted to touch him and wanted to be touched by him.

But...

girlfriend?

Annie was no girlfriend. Girlfriends were giggling, coy cows and the term alone had many implications otherwise – and none were suitable to describe her. She wasn't a girl after all. And friend...he wasn't sure how to determine whether someone was a friend. Eleanor was a...well, mother-figure, Draco was his godson, Aideen was Eleanor's granddaughter. Everyone had a clearly defined place in his life. Those who were in his life and none of those truly defined themselves as 'friend'. Of course he knew that 'girlfriend' meant something like steady partner. A partner. A sort of significant other. But Annie was...was she? No. Definitely not. Or not yet. Or would probably never be, he wasn't sure. There had to be a reason why it was girl_friend_ and not only girl.

No, Annie was a still undefined someone (and definitely not a special someone), and certainly not a girlfriend. He had no friends and as such, she couldn't be a girlfriend.

"I have no girlfriend," he replied acerbically but Eleanor only rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"I knew you'd say that. The woman then, the girl, the, ah, bit of stuff if you like," she smirked and he groaned.

"Not bit of stuff," he huffed.

"Woman," she rolled her eyes again.

"Nobody," he said immediately.

"Alright, so we will call her Nobody for the time being. Or a shortened version...Nob? Noby? Nobs? Nobs sounds good to me. So what kind of a woman is Nobs?" asked Eleanor, her eyes twinkling wildly and he knew he stood basically no chance. She would grill him until he folded.

"It's of no importance," he tried.

"Oh Severus," she shook her head and laughed. "So let me guess. You met this bird at uni and after a bit of uming and ahing, you met and from then on, you met again and again. And now you're embarrassed to tell."

Yes, Severus thought, embarrassed. He knew how Eleanor stood towards pre-marital intimacies – put elegantly – and he had no intention at all to ever get married. Much less to marry Annie. And he had felt no qualms about being intimate, very intimate, with her. Without her knowing who he really was and not knowing anything about him apart from the fact that he was more or less talented when it came to Linguistics. She didn't even know that he had developed potions before. That he had developed theories, spells according to those theories. That he had probably graded more essays than she ever had. He had been intimate with her without knowing exactly how old she was, or she knowing how old he was. She didn't even know where he lived or if he was married. He could be married for all she knew. She could be married. It was – embarrassing. And ridiculous. Utterly, horrendously ridiculous.

Keeping the woman at arm's length and yet allowing her to be so much closer to him than that.

He swallowed hard and took a long look at Eleanor's face. She waited for him to speak but she wore a kind smile, a non-judging smile and her eyes shone brightly. That woman sitting there knew so much about him, knew him more intimately than probably anyone still alive and he didn't dare to tell her that he had been with somebody? That woman worried about him – and he left and didn't even tell her where he went. That wasn't right. He took a deep breath.

"Her name is Annie and I met her at uni. She's a lecturer there and I took her class last semester. We met over the summer occasionally and now still do. But it's nothing serious."

"Just a friend then?" she smirked evilly.

"Yes," he sighed, "just a friend." Whatever her definition of friend was.

"Nothing else?"

"No, nothing else," he lied smoothly.

She took his hand and held it again. Just held it and smiled – whatever that meant.

.

There was something Draco felt he ought to do. He tried to push the 'ought to' out of his mind, tried to make himself believe it wasn't necessary but in the end, it was. In the end, he felt compelled to do it. And he told himself that once he had done that, once it was done, he would be completely finished with the entire chapter of his life. That chapter of his life would then be over and he could then focus on what he would spend the rest of his life doing. Rebuild his life and make sure that his family had a good standing with the Wizarding World again. Make sure he was respected by those he had been sneered at and those he had wanted to run away from.

And he knew now that that had been the wrong way – the right way was to make sure all of them knew that he was someone to look up to and someone to fear and someone to respect. He was Draco Malfoy and he did not run away.

Not from anything – or anyone. And that's why he was doing this. Why he had to do this. To end one thing in order to begin something else.

He nodded to himself and dipped the quill deep into his inkwell.

_Granger, _

_please tell Miss Callaghan that I will not return to Manchester. _

_Draco Malfoy_

It wasn't that he owed her anything, and her grandmother had been informed by his godfather, he hoped. That woman didn't have to worry more as she had done over her and he knew she would. She worried about everyone and everything. It didn't matter. He couldn't care about that. He didn't have time or the mind to do that – besides, his chest hurt less when he didn't think about her. And about her grandmother. And about her grandmother's neighbour. He did not want his chest to hurt and with that short missive, now tied to the owl's leg, would lessen the pain when he lay awake and couldn't sleep at night. He had done what was best for him. Granger would make sure she knew and Granger would leave him be because Granger wouldn't possibly come to Malfoy Manor. He knew what had happened there and he had a fair idea of the kind of nightmares that Granger still had. Aunt Bella had never been the sanest of people and it seemed Aunt Andromeda wasn't any better.

He sat on his bed, unsure on how to proceed with his life at that moment, unsure about what to do next, how to go about forcing others to respect the name of Malfoy again. Or how to get a bit more money now his job was gone and in a world he did not belong in.

He closed his eyes and forced her image away from his inner eye. It wouldn't do.

.

Hermione punched numbers into her mobile phone. Angrily. That arrogant, idiotic twit. Whatever he had done now, it was just...argh. Stupid, bloody idiotic boy, running away? And why? Only that bloody brief note:

_Granger, _

_please tell Miss Callaghan that I will not return to Manchester. _

_Draco Malfoy_

Whatever was that supposed to mean? Had they broken up? Quite possibly from the tone he used but why? Why in the name of all that was good and holy had they broken up?

There was only one way to find out. The source of all problems and while she couldn't speak to Aideen, she could very well speak to – her grandmother. Mrs Callaghan would know. And Mrs Callaghan would tell her.

"Eleanor Callaghan's residence," he voice snarled on the phone and all the blood in her body seemed to flow right into her cheeks. Why was Snape – Snape of all people – answering the phone?

"Erm, yes, hi, erm, this is Hermione Granger," stuttered she.

"Granger," he seemed to grunt. "Mrs Callaghan is not available at the moment."

"Erm, maybe, er, you can help me? I mean, bring light to this?"

"Bring light to what?" he snarled.

"Light to the fact that Draco Malfoy just sent me an owl with a note that said, please tell Miss Callaghan that I will not return to Manchester."

There was a noise at the other end of the line. It sounded like another grunt or a sigh or something along that line – air streaming past the vocal chords without forming words.

"What?" she asked testily.

He said nothing again and her temper flared.

"Snape, what happened?"

Another pause, another noise (more like a sigh this time), then clearing his throat. "My godson saw fit to inform Miss Callaghan of his way of life and Miss Callaghan acted rather rashly and impulsively and he interpreted this wrongly and seemed to have returned to his father."

"Draco went back to his father? But he loves Aideen and Mrs Callaghan. And he sort of you know, likes you. Why?"

Another noise, another sort of grunt, or sigh or whatever it was called and her blush was completely gone, then returned. Grunt and sighs were rather...interesting noises when it came to Snape's voice. Well...within reason.

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,than are dreamt of in your philosophy," he mocked.

"What? Why? What? Hamlet? What the...are you...?"

"Granger..." he made another one of those noise but this time it sounded a little more exasperated.

"Draco went because he and Aideen had a fight?"

"No, because he thinks a relationship between a Muggle and a Wizard or Witch can never happen," he sounded annoyed now.

"But they love each other."

"Yes," he drawled. "Maybe."

"Snape that's all very interesting, but what can I do?" she hissed angrily.

He seemed to take a deep breath and then cleared his throat. Again. "Well, you can present yourself here the day after tomorrow, nine in the morning and you could accompany me to Malfoy Manor."

.

_**Sorry for the shortness and the crappiness. Can't be helped. **_

_**Thank you for your reviews and reading! **_


	57. The Power of Words

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_With our Hearers we make the most of our Subject: that is in the Power of Words to make. Opposite to this Figure is Precision, which rather gives a Hint to the Understanding more than you fay ; as is likewise Brevity, which consists in a distinct: Conciseness, together with Extenuation and Illusion, which falls pretty well in with Cœsat's Rules. Then comes Digression, which as it is delightful, your resuming your Subject ought to be proper and agreeable; then follows the Proposition of what you are to speak to ; then its Disjuntlion from what hath been already said ; then you return to what you propos'd; then you recapitulate ; then you draw from the Premises your Conclusion ; then you enhance or evade the Truth, according as your Intention is to exaggerate or extenuate then you examine, and, what is very near a-kin to Examination, you expostulate and answer upon your own Principles ; then comes that bewitching Figure of Irony, by which a different Thing is understood from what is express'd, a Figure that has the most agreeable Effects in a Discourse, when introdue'd not by way of Argument, but Entertainment; then comes Dubitation; then Distribution; thest the Correction of what you have either faid, or are to fay; or when you are to throw any thing off from yourself. Premunition, regards the Point you attempt to prove; then there is throwing the Blame upon another; then there is Communication, which is a kind of Deliberation with those to whom you speak; then there is the Imitation of Morals and Life, either when you name or conceal the Characters they belong to ; this is a great Embellishment to a Speech, and is chiefly calculated _

_(M. T. Cicero, 55 BC, translated by William Guthrie, 1755)_

.

"Shite," muttered she. "Shite," she said, louder. "Shite," she shouted. "Shite!"

The boy looked at her with big – bright purple – eyes and his mouth hung open which looked a bit unintelligent and the bit of drool gathering at the side of his mouth didn't truly change that impression. "Shite," she explained and with trepidation looked at her watch. If she didn't leave within the next five minutes, she would most definitely be late. And if she was late, Snape would think she was unreliable and that was something she didn't want. If she did show up, she had to take Ted with her. She had been absolutely stupid – had known it Harry would be out on practice, had known Ron was out to Auror training and she had completely forgot that it had been her turn to watch him. It was her second to last day before Uni started and...it had just slipped her mind. And now it was too late to ask Molly Weasley to watch him and it was too late for anything but either – not going – or taking him with her.

Technically, Ted was a relative of the Malfoys. Technically, he was Lucius Malfoy's...what? Great-Nephew? Second nephew? What were they called? Anyway, they were related but protecting him if Malfoy was...No. She had no other choice but to take him with her.

"I'm sorry Ted, he will probably be angry as hell but I can't leave you alone, obviously, and I can't not go. He _asked_ me to go. He wants me to come. And I'd be daft not to go, wouldn't I? I mean he probably only wants me to apparate him and then 'stay back' but at least then I could help him and I know I could knock sense into Draco. At least a little. Aideen's probably miserable and I hope he's too. A person cannot change that quickly and if he's too stupid to explain to her calmly what he is and what he does, he needs to be knocked on the head. And he needs to see that Aideen probably only needed a little bit of time. No need to break up over something like that, is it? We have to go. You have apparated before, haven't you?"

"My-Oh-Neeee," he grinned, more drool gathering at the corner of his mouth which she, subconsciously, wiped away with the sleeve of her cardigan as she picked him up and cuddled him close.

"Yes, Ted, Hermione is going to apparate you know and you will not complain and not cry afterwards, please," she almost begged and a moment later, she was gone with a crack.

The boy was more startled, it seemed, than shocked or nauseous. He just babbled something and then smiled at her, and poked a sticky finger in her chin.

"Yes, Ted, you will now meet Snape. And Snape will not like you but he it's his own fault because you're quite cute if you'd stop drooling, that is," she explained and rang the man's door bell, waiting for the storm that would most certainly come over her in a second.

.

At least, Severus thought, she was punctual. At least, she rang her door bell a minute before nine and not eight minutes after. But with apparating, it probably wasn't so difficult to be on time. He had had one and a half days to scold himself over even asking her to come. It wasn't about the apparition, he had asked Eleanor if he could take her car and he would use that (even if he only had tiny grasp on driving and no licence at all but it would do – he had tried after all, she had let him train). If she had a problem with that, it was her problem. It wasn't all that far anyway, two hours at the most and the radio in the car did work. If she asked her head off, he would just turn it on. Some classical station. Or some of the music that some of his former fellow students back when he had been at Hogwarts. He would find something but he would never let her apparate him again – that was completely out of the question. And in all honesty – the thought of Lucius's face if a common, old, Muggle car drove in front of Malfoy Manor magicked an evil smirk on his face. That man would be shocked beyond belief and Draco would hopefully remember that car and the rather embarrassing, but good times he had spent in it.

He walked briskly to the door and opened it slowly.

It was Granger alright – Granger with a giggling, drooling child on her arm.

"What's that?" he asked, the evil smirk he had worn just a second ago, gone completely.

"It's a child," answered Granger, grimacing. "I forgot it was my turn and I couldn't leave Ted with Kreacher. That would have been disastrous."

"Lupin's child," he stated more than asked and took a good, long look at the child who now seemed to have decided to smile and babble at him. Babble literally at him. Lupin's child. No, didn't look like the wolf at all but seemed to have the tendency for colours his mother had. His hair was a bright purple and his eyes were matching. Absolutely ridiculous.

"Yep, Remus's son," Granger said sadly.

"He doesn't look like him," he growled.

"He's a Metamorphmagus. I'm not sure I know what he really looks like," she shrugged on shoulder and the child wobbled on her hip – and seemed to like it. "I, erm, I had no other choice but to bring him. If you don't...but I thought they were all relatives and..." she blushed. She just bloody blushed and he could do nothing but scowl at her blush. He hadn't asked Granger for no reason or because he enjoyed her company or her incessant babbling _at_ him – but indubitably, there would be wards around the Manor and if he was unlucky, both Muggle and Squib wards and if he got caught in one of them, he rather did not want Lucius to find him there, probably dangling like a fly in a spider's web. That was why he was taking her – she listened to him (more or less), she would get him from the wards (if they acted the way he remembered Malfoy's wards to work...) and through them. But with a child with them...he growled low in his throat.

That idiotic Potter, that idiotic Granger. He had given her plenty of time. He had given her almost two days. And she still had to babysit the bloody wolf's pup. Who did not look like a pup but now that his hair was less purple and his eyes were less purple he looked like...

Him.

"Make him change," he snarled, pointing at the child who seemed to try and impersonate him. His hair was black and not so long and not so greasy anymore, his eyes were almost pitch-black (he suspected that the toddler had missed the fact that his eyes were just very, very, very dark brown) and the nose was longer and had a bump. The pup tried to scowl as well, tried to copy him but failed.

"He likes you," she couldn't suppress her sniggering and only cuddled (cuddled!) the brat closer to her chest. Cuddled a mini-version, a tiny, wee mini-version of him. "I'm sorry, I have no idea how to tell him to change his appearance," a giggle escaped her throat and her cheeks were flushed by probably the excitement of seeing him – humiliated.

Humiliated by a mere child whose father he had loathed and whose mother he had belittled through her schooling (or that part of her schooling he had been present) but whom he slowly began to respect. If she didn't knock things over. And Lupin...oh well. He had died. It didn't do him any good to think badly about the dead. Or some dead. Not all of them, naturally.

And it seemed, the humiliation was not completely yet. In fact, as soon as Granger stepped just a little closer, the pup raised his arms, disentangled it from the barely controlled shrubbery on Granger's head and pointed them at him. The pup – Lupin's pup – and yes, Lupin was the man that had almost killed him when they had been teenagers – wanted to be held by him? No.

"No," he said sternly, glaring down at the child.

"Arms," it babbled.

"Speak in complete sentences," he growled, unaware that he was talking to a child who hadn't even yet reached the age of two.

"He can't," laughed Granger and seemed to want to step even closer.

"No," he shook his head again. He was not talking to children and he had only asked Granger to come because he probably (most likely) needed help with the wards around Malfoy Manor and because and not to be forced to hold a drooling child who directed his babbling _at_ people.

"So..." Granger cuddled him close again. "When do we leave? Ted doesn't mind apparation and I'm sure I can take both of you. He's only tiny."

"You will not go," he snarled. "Not with that."

"It's not a that, Snape, it's Ted. Ted Lupin," she spoke slowly and hissed his last name. When had he given her permission to only use his last name? He couldn't remember doing that at all.

"You can't take it with you."

"It? It? It's a boy. B – O – Y. Boy. Not an it. Ted. Ted," she shook her head.

"Fine. You cannot take _him_ with you."

"What then?"

.

In the end, Hermione thought, it had been a rather good idea of hers to ask Eleanor to watch Ted. Ted had warmed to the woman instantly and the older woman had warmed to him – especially since he still looked like a little version of Snape. It was most amusing and rather funny. It was almost a spitting copy, only in the sixteen-month-old version. She should have taken a picture really. Any child of Snape's would surely look like that and she couldn't help but remember the horrified look on Snape's face as Ted wanted to be held by him.

It provoked a giggle. She couldn't help it.

"What's funny now?" the man next to her in the car asked, grumpily, his eyes glued to the road. Of course she hadn't know that Snape could drive, but to be honest, nothing that he would or could do would surprise her anymore. Take down a mad witch with pepper-spray and rope and driving a car. No, nothing would surprise her anymore. Not when it came to Snape. Never again.

"Ted and the way he seemed to channel you," she blurted out. "I mean," she had to back-pedal, bad, bad, bad. It wouldn't do. He'd be offended and would probably throw her from the car any moment now.

He growled again. Well. That sound...she better not think about that sound. It was...sexy. Sexy was the best way to describe it. Not thinking about it. Snape wasn't nice. He was brave, yes, and he demanded a certain amount of respect but he wasn't kind and he wasn't nice and he wasn't groomed and if she thought about it, which she truly didn't want to do, she did like the ungroomedness (different from Charlie anyway) and the unkindness and the witty remarks and he had looked rather...cute...when he had tried to get asf ar away from Ted as he could. Not a good idea to be thinking along this line if she was stuck in that car with that man.

"He's just as idiotic as if father and mother were," he said snarkily, his eyes never once leaving the road they were driving on.

"Neither Remus not Tonks were idiotic," she said, sadly. "I'm kind of glad that Harry now got custody of the child. I mean we can give him a good childhood and Harry loves the boy and he will tell him tales of his parents. I'm not saying his grandmother wouldn't have but...Harry loved and respected Remus and Tonks. Both of them equally. And he will do his best to let him grow up as happy and as content as any child can be. Given his background of course, he would do his best," she stopped herself. She was babbling. Trying to sell a dead man and his dead wife to a man who had loathed both of them.

"Finished?" he growled again. If he could only stop that growl...it was almost like head-Severus was invading her head again. But this wasn't head-Severus. It was Snape. Simply Snape.

"Yes," nodded she, and felt her face growing hot and she knew she was blushing. Again. "Erm, where did you learn to drive?"

"Who said I learned it?" he smirked.

"You didn't?" she shrieked.

"I am obviously capable of driving, Granger. Stop complaining or I'll let you walk back home."

She decided to ignore his quip (having suspected as much) and put a serious face on. "What's the plan?"

"We talk to my godson. The Imbecile. And we find out what his father wants. Truly wants."

"What do I do?" she asked curiously, hoping in the depth of her heart that he didn't say something along the lines of 'stay back'.

"You stay back," he replied immediately.

"No. Snape, no. What did you bring me for? You won't even let me apparate, you won't let me help, but you drag me along?" she almost shrieked.

"Lucius Malfoy is rather inventive when it comes to wards," he said and, never taking his eyes off the road, he fumbled with the radio and turned some classical music louder.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**Life does suck sometimes, doesn't it? **_


	58. Arbitrariness in Argument Realization

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

Dedicated to **notjustme22** (who hopefully knows why).

_._

_When it comes to psych verbs, Dowty (1991: 579-80) points out that pairs such as _fear – frighten _represent arbitrariness in argument realization. Both _fear _and_ frighten _have equal Proto-Agent entailments: the sentience of the Experiencer and the causation of Theme/Stimulus. Thus, the two argument are not distinguished by other entailments, and, therefore, it is not clear which one will occupy the subject and while one will occupy the object positions. Either realization at the subject position does not violate any Proto-Agent principle. However, fear and frighten have different entailments when it comes to the Proto-Patient role. These entailments are related to the eventive reading of object-Experiencer verbs extensively observed in the literature. The eventive reading of this verb class is associated with a change of state on the part of Experiencer, which is a Proto-Patient property. Thus, although the two arguments are equal in terms of proto-Agent properties, it is their difference in the Proto-Patient properties that determines their realization. Therefore, in Dowty's terms, causation outranks sentience in determining canonical argument realization. _

(Featherston, Winkler, 2009)

.

So far, he knew he hadn't spent all that much time with Granger and even though it hadn't been his aim, he had already, he thought, figured her out. She spoke when she was nervous, well, speaking was an overstatement, babbling was rather more apt, and after about three minutes of Bach on the radio, her rigid back went slacker and she almost slouched in the car seat. Or maybe it was because he had not yet run over anything, had not yet had an accident or came to close to any people on bicycles or motorbikes or anything else that should not really be on any street anyhow.

And after another three minutes of any other composer he couldn't place immediately, she had her eyes closed and a minute later, began to hum.

Hum.

In his car. Well, technically not his car but the principle was the same. She hummed and he was driving.

"Granger," he growled. "Could you stop making that terrible noise?"

"What noise?" she opened her eyes lazily (he thought since he kept his eyes on the road).

"Humming," snarled he.

"I'm not humming," she replied immediately.

He said nothing to that. Of course she wasn't humming now. Now she was...speaking and looking at him, probably. And her back went rigid again and she sat as if the seat was made off nails. He smirked. At least she was quiet now. And quiet was good because turning the music louder was not truly an option. Turning the music any louder would blast his ears off.

"Snape, if you don't want me here, why did you ask me?"

"I told you why I asked you," he said, then groaned quietly.

"The wards," she huffed. "I'm just the idiot who does the dirty work."

Despite his ears, despite the potential deafness, Mozart was turned louder. And if she hummed any more, he would look for another station. Even if it was the stuff that Aideen said was fun...Death Metal.

.

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, nibbled on it and stared at the building looming there in front of her. Idiotic her – had so far only thought about the fact that Draco and Aideen needed to make up and not about the fact that this was Malfoy Manor.

If she had remembered...

If she had remembered, thought about, she would be at home with Ted at this moment and suddenly, his order to 'stay back' didn't sound so bad altogether. Remaining behind in the car would be a good idea as well. Some of the muscles in her back had begun to cramp, or so it felt like. No, it felt like a vertebra should snap back into place but because it wouldn't, she wasn't able to draw a deep breath.

And she couldn't even remember the outside all that clearly. Or at all. But she couldn't possibly go in there. Where was her head lately? She couldn't fathom it – normally, that would have been the first thing that had popped into her head. Normally, she would have taken very bloody possibility into account, she would have thought about everything and now? Now she had even forgot that this was Malfoy Manor. The one place most of her nightmares took place.

She remembered that room very clearly – if she wanted to. And as she kept those memories as far from herself as she could when she was awake, they came sneaking up at her at night when she was weakest, when she was most unprotected. When she could hear the cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange, when she could see all of them watching and when she woke with a start, feeling her nerves tingling painfully and her head throbbing and her stomach threatening to lose all of its content.

And there it was, inside of that impressive, if a bit dingy looking manor. Inside of this almost innocent looking house. No peacocks in front of it. Nothing. The house elves were probably overtaxed as well, the garden looked like it hadn't seen shears or grooming in a while, the lawn was grass and quite high, mixed with weeds and there was even the odd weed blooming.

Snape stopped the car and she hid her hands in her lap, clawed together, holding on to her right thigh. It wouldn't do for him to see this. He would surely tell her to stay put or would snarl at her and being snarled at was the last thing she needed at this moment. Or worse – being made fun off.

She wasn't sure whether she judged him correctly, but he had seemed like the type (at school at least) to use your weakness against you. Whether he still was that way – she didn't know. It was nevertheless the best to just hide her fear from him.

'I'm brave. I can do this,' she muttered inside her head, repeating those two sentence over and over again like a mantra. 'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this.'

She watched as he unbuckled his seatbelt and as he gave her a long, lingering glance. Her hands were still clawed in her lap, a few fingernails digging into her thigh through her jeans. She smiled weakly, wouldn't let him see her weakness, her fear, and forcing her hands to just still long enough, she released herself from the confines of the seatbelt as well and a bit awkwardly, fumbled the wand from her pocket.

"I'm ready whenever you are," she said, keeping her voice steady – but he still looked at her and in that instant, it was clear, very, very clear that he knew. He knew. He knew.

'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. 'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this.' She forced those two sentences back into her head, said them to herself, shouted them inside her head.

"Let's not waste time," he grumbled and opened his door. "He will have seen the car in any case."

She nodded, smiled weakly and on shaky legs, she climbed out of the old car, forcing a lungful of air into herself. It tasted like meadows, like summer, like damp, hot summer. No bird could be heard. The stopped singing some time during the summer. Busy with brooding, done with finding a mate, done with marking their territory. It was quiet. Another lungful of air would do her good.

And Snape was still looking at her. There was absolutely no expression on his face. None. She nodded at him encouragingly and began to step towards the house.

.

He had forgot. He hadn't even considered that there might be bad memories for that woman in that house. He had simply forgot that she had been tortured in there. Bella hadn't been able to grumble about the fact that she hadn't managed to torture her into insanity, that she hadn't been able to kill her.

And he had forced her back.

Well, she could have just said no, couldn't she? Silly woman for going through with something like this when she knew she was almost scared stiff. He sighed very quietly.

He had to give this to her – there were places he never wanted to return to, and places he had never returned to. The Astronomy Tower had never seen him again after that fateful night, not even when he had been Headmaster. He had absolutely no longing to see the Shrieking Shack again, he did not want to ever return to the Riddle's former place of residence – had often enough eaten dirt off their floor when he had lain writhing and and screaming in pain on that ground. And yet, she hadn't even hesitated before she had agreed to come.

He wondered whether it was possible that she had forgot they were going to Malfoy Manor – but discarded the thought quickly. She wasn't the kind of person that forgot anything. He bet that, as irritating as it would be, she could recite every single ingredient of every single potion she had ever been made to brew in his class. Just irritating. So, logically, she couldn't have forgot that they were going to talk to Draco Malfoy – and Lucius Malfoy – at _Malfoy_ Manor.

He had. And now he had to endure watching her almost shivering from fear but forcing herself to appear strong and brave in front of him. That was just irritating.

If Eleanor ever heard of this, she would probably have his head on a pike, even though she did not feel quite as strongly about Granger as she felt about him or about Draco, at least he thought so. But she abhorred anyone being subjected to anything which could make them feel bad, loathed those things, no matter who was subjected and who did the subjecting. Well, maybe not his head on a pike but if she learned of the fact that he had forgot such a simple thing, such a big thing, she would get rather stern and would probably be angry with him for a while. Or maybe not.

Probably not because – she had chosen to come. He hadn't forced her. It was her own fault that she thught she could handle this and then couldn't. Sometimes, he knew, you had to get through those things.

But – it was almost pitiful to see her clutching her wand so tightly it threatened to snap. Wands were delicate things – to be handled with care and gently – and not gripped like a cricket bat. Or someone's throat in order to strangle that person.

He arched his eyebrows and just walked slowly towards the Manor. It would be just like Lucius to invite him, then have to pluck him from one of his wards in order to amuse himself. On the other hand...was it? He had seemed almost sincere in his wish to see his son happy and...

He had sold his books.

Amongst those books was a tome, rather revolutionary in its time, then put on a kind of Wizarding index. Written in 1914, Castor Burbage (a grandfather or great-grandfather of the Muggle Studies teacher who had met her end...in there), had drawn comparisons between Muggle dynasties and the more or less apparent incest common with Purebloods. He had compared the Spanish Habsburgs to the then died out Pureblooded family Cerrite. In both families, first cousins had married first cousins, uncles had produced children with nieces, Squibs were more common with the Cerrites, even if a woman managed to deliver a living child. As with the Habsburgs, not only the insanity had been hereditary and had only increased due to the inbreeding, but also the abnormal prognathism visible in so many Habsburgs. Castor Burbage, he remembered, had suggested outbreeding in Pureblooded families.

He had been able to find a copy amongst his mother's possessions. She would have it, despite the fact the Ministry of Magic had forbidden it after the outcry of the Blacks, the Parkinsons, the Princes and several other Pureblooded families back then. When he had discovered the book, he had understood his mother's desperate needs to try and make a marriage work between herself and a common Muggle. It hadn't helped the Prince nose in his case.

And that book, 'On Incest' (what a ridiculous title, he had thought more than once), had been amongst those he hadn't burned yet – or so he thought – when Lucius had taken the rest and had sold them. Of course he would have looked through them and Severus was sure he would find some in the Manor, especially the darker texts.

In retrospect, he had been an absolute fool to burn those books. Some were so rare that there were only a few in existence, so unusual they were legendary. He thought he should be grateful – or at least the Wizarding World – that not all of them had found their end as ashes.

Didn't matter now anyway, it was all part of the past. But – if Lucius had read the book, a compelling thing (otherwise his mother would have never fallen for it), with plenty of illustrations and moving images of insane Cerrites and other Pureblooded families, stillborns, decrepit youngsters, deformed children unable to walk, talk, or any such thing, Severus could believe that his wish for Draco to marry a Muggle, bringing fresh blood into the family, even if it came with shame. That at least, was bearable in comparison to have the line die out, or to have no grandchildren at all. Or insane grandchildren such as his sisters-in-law (and maybe his wife) had been. And Lucius, Severus remembered, had Muggle great-great-grandmother and a Muggleborn great-grandmother. He would have to take a look around inside the Manor.

Let it go according to plan – talk to Lucius and have maybe Granger talk to Draco. If she could go in there.

He hadn't noticed he had almost reached the door – no wards – only when he looked over her shoulder to see her standing there, stock still. Her eyes were wide in fear and her wand still clutched like a cricket bat.

He wasn't sure whether to say something or to hold his tongue. Who knew how she would react? No, he would remain as snarky as ever.

"Coming or not?" he snarled, not letting it show that there was a strange feeling in his stomach upon seeing her this afraid (it was just a novelty after all – Gryffindors usually weren't afraid).

.

She nodded quickly and pressed her lips together tightly. She knew they were abused, having worried both the upper and the lower one with her teeth, having chewed on them like they were just pieces of meat. But she had been able to do that as long as he hadn't looked – and since he had been so lost in thought, she thought, it had been no problem to remain a little behind him.

Besides, there was no need for her to be there, there were no wards that were dangerous to them. Even though...a Muggle-repelling one was clearly there, and an anti-intruder one. One against wild animals (at least she thought that was what it was). So he was no Muggle, the back of her head concluded.

No need to think about that now. He wanted her to come in with him. And for a moment, she had thought he had realised that this was Malfoy Manor, that she couldn't possibly go in there. But did he even know what had happened in there? Surely Bellatrix wouldn't boast about it when they had got away...but maybe she had been enraged and he had known and was doing this to torture her? She didn't think he was that cruel...but maybe he was. It didn't matter.

She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again, she didn't only stand next to Snape but also in front of an open door, opening to the foyer she remembered. She couldn't go in there.

"Don't dawdle," he said but there was an undertone to his voice – or maybe she was just imagining things. No – he was looking at her strangely again. Not worried or anything but deeply. He was looking into her eyes like he tried to read her. Legilimency he couldn't do anymore, she knew that. But he clearly read her. Or tried to. Or maybe he was just trying to make her even more insecure? Or maybe the opposite? Maybe he wanted to say, without words, that he could handle Andromeda with pepper-spray and a rope and that he would protect her?

She could pretend the look he was giving her meant that. Yes, she could. Even if it wasn't true, it would be good like this. Snape was by her side. And he was still, despite the Muggle clothes and the shorter hair, scary and had a presence. Nothing would happen to her as long as he was by her side. She could pretend that.

She didn't notice the house elf nor the fact that they were lead into the foyer, that she suddenly stood in there and took a look around.

The door to that room was shut. It was shut, there was no way she could look inside of it. She didn't have to go in there, the door was shut. It was closed but...

Hermione couldn't help but stare at the door and she froze. Her back went absolutely straight, absolutely cramped and her head was spinning upon her neck. Her legs were threatening to give in.

No. She was a Gryffindor. This was just a house, this was just a shut door to a room. Any room. It didn't matter what kind of room. And a shut door to any random room should not give her the shivers and should not let her freeze in fear. It was utter rubbish, utter insanity to fear a room. A room wouldn't harm her.

Suddenly, she felt a hand upon her arm – her wand-arm and she forced her head to stop spinning and to look at the person attached to the hand that was on her arm. Snap looked at her strangely – and he was the body attached to the hand on her arm. Snape had his hand on her arm. Bare arm.

"Bellatrix is dead," he said and the undertone in his voice was clearer this time.

.

_**I hope you're all happy with the HGSSness of this chapter. **_

_**The Spanish line of the House of Habsburg is the most interesting thing. A bit odd and weird and utterly strange and if you have some spare time, I'd recommend reading up on them. The last king of that line, Charles II, died in 1700, basically unable to speak and eat due to an overly large tongue, couldn't walk until he was eight and in the fifth generation back, he had 10 ancestors instead of the normal 32. Interesting, that. **_


	59. Nonverbal Communication: Proximity

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

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_How close people sit or stand can easily be measured, but a considerable body of experimental work has yielded rather meagre results. It is found that people stand somewhat closer to people they like, and to those whose eyes are shut. However the differences of proximity involved are very small, a matter of 2-3 inches on average. There are much greater cross-cultural variations, in that Latin Americans and Arabs stand very close , while Swedes, Scots and the English stand much further apart. There are also consistent individual differences, but these appear to be unrelated to other aspects of personality, apart from a tendency for maladjusted people to be more distant. Porter, Argyle and Salter (1969) found that proximity communicates very little about an interactor: stooges who sat at 2 ft, 4 ft, and 8 ft were not perceived as different in their personality. On the other hand when a number of people are present, proximity is found to reflect and probably communicate the relations between them. Changes in proximity communicate the desire to initiate or terminate an encounter: if A wants to start an encounter with B he will move closer, though this must be accompanied by appropriate gaze and conversation. _

(Argyle, in Hinde, 1972)

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Granger looked at him with wide, fearful, puzzled eyes and as soon as they had found his, he had snatched his own hand away. Didn't know, didn't understand why he had put his hand there in the first place. It wasn't like him to try and console someone, encourage someone. This wasn't what he did, he had never done it (apart from the odd, scared first year Slytherin who had been brave enough to come to him for comfort. Hadn't been that many in all the years he had taught. Millicent Bullstrode came to mind, the very bulky looking girl who was so sensitive and who hadn't been afraid of his stern looks. And just now it had come almost...naturally...to just put his hand on her arm when she had stood so still, so afraid in front of the door which lead to _that_ room. Her arms had been wrapped tightly around her middle, as if she was trying to hug herself, to console herself, to comfort herself and his hand had just...sort of...found its way On her bare arm. And his voice, his vocal cords, his tongue, his lips – they had spoken. Not that he truly wanted to but then again he needed her in good shape to talk to Draco and if she was a cowering mess, she would never be able to convince him to at least talk to Aideen himself. And he needed that amount of time to talk to Lucius, to find out what that man wanted.

But when she had looked at him – with those eyes – he had to let go immediately. He had no idea what he had been thinking. And it was better he didn't know. She might think he had gone – soft. Compassionate. Heaven forbid – caring.

He wasn't. Whatever devil had possessed him – he was neither of those things. His hand was now his own again and it wasn't to be moved from his side again soon. His thinking must have been muddled. Clearly. Or it was Eleanor's influence. Or maybe it was this building which held quite a few of his own, not so pleasant memories. And the Mansion seemed even gloomier now, seemed to have fallen more into decay even though there were new pictures on the walls. One of Abraxas and Lucius and a toddler Draco. Abraxas had been...oh well. Rather ashamed of his part-Muggle ancestry, convinced he was better than anyone – Muggle or Wizard and letting everyone know it.

It was probably the typical behaviour so many showed...feeling inferior but at the same time looking down upon those others...

"Thank you," said Granger, suddenly, and showed him a very, very weak smile, his hands, he noticed immediately, trembling ever so faintly, even though they were now clawed into one another, fingers entwined with fingers and nails digging into the skin.

He nodded briefly – and wished she would sort of make her eyes smaller again. That doe-like, wide-eyed, innocent, fearful look in her eyes was unsettling.

"Severus," he heard behind him and he felt himself – reflexes were sometimes hard to stop – reaching for his own wand.

He stilled his hand just before it could dive into his pocket and turned around. What was it with his right hand anyway? First it sneakily touched Granger and now it reached for the non-existent wand...he would have to...well, chop it off sounded a bit excessive.

"Lucius," he greeted with studied coldness.

"And Miss Granger," the blonde man could not hide his surprise well. "Did you..."

Severus interrupted. "Miss Granger would like a word with your son."

"Very well," replied Lucius and his face, again, was the mask of arrogant indifference. "Upstairs, fourth door on the right."

Granger's eyes had not changed and Severus knew that Lucius had seen her fear as well but oddly enough, like he had done, decided to ignore it and didn't even look at her. She nodded at Lucius, then looked at him again. Severus arched his eyebrows.

"Upstairs, fourth door on the right," he repeated sternly and with another little smile, she had gone up the stairs.

"Interesting, Severus," Lucius said the moment she was out of sight.

"Isn't it? I thought so too. Imagine my surprise upon getting such a letter from you," he sneered.

"Shall we continue this in the library," the other man sneered back.

"Fine," nodded he and followed his former – friend into the extensive library. He would have to keep his eyes open for that book, almost certain now that this man – who was but a shadow of his former self – had honestly and truly only the best for his family in mind. With Andromeda and Bellatrix gone insane, his wife having run off, his own mother not quite clear in the head (or maybe that had just been eccentricity), and that book additionally, he would definitely think about bringing 'fresh' blood into the family. Of course if Severus had been in Lucius's stead, he would not have recommended a Muggle but rather a witch from a different continent. Pureblood, even. There were witches and wizards in the South Pacific who had never been in any contact with British Wizardkind.

"Miss Granger? In this house?" Lucius drawled, sitting down in a plushy, if a bit old, armchair, crossing his legs.

"She and Draco's former...interest...are friends," he replied coldly.

"I see," said he.

"So he arrived well here?" asked Severus, carefully watching what he was saying – or thinking. Had never been quite sure whether Lucius Malfoy had mastered Legilimency.

"He did."

"Very good," said Severus and silence fell over those two men.

.

Hermione's mind was – frankly – in turmoil. She had never, never in her life, thought that Snape of all people could be so considerate and so...nice. Nice was the only word she could think off. He had been nice. He had given her strength in a moment when she had almost decided to run out of that house again. When she had been so close to running out of the house. When her legs only had to be convinced to move. They could not be made to walk at all. And when he had looked at her like that...and that door to that room was half behind her, her legs had been utterly like stone.

He had been so kind to her. 'Bellatrix is dead.'

Yes, she was dead and a room was just a room. A room like that could not hurt her, would not hurt her. And her memories were just memories. He had explained that – in three little words. Bellatrix is dead. It was so simple. She had a wand and Lucius Malfoy would not hurt her as long as Snape was there with her. And Draco certainly wouldn't hurt her either.

She dragged her eyes away from Snape's (when had he become so kind?) and darted up the stairs, fourth door to the right, only counting the doors, not even paying attention to what was on the walls, anything else. Actually...his eyes were still there. Still felt like he was looking at her even though an entire story separated them and her skin tingled where he had touched her.

It didn't matter. She had to convince Draco to come back home and if that task was complete, she could think about why Snape had touched her and why he had tried to take her fear away from her. And had succeeded in taking that fear away from her. But only after she had managed to get Draco to go back to Aideen.

Third door, fourth door. She didn't wait to take another breath but nodded immediately – and, again without waiting, stepped in. It was a window front. A window front was the first thing she saw. It seemed quite unusual for a Manor this age and in that style to have an entire side made of windows but Draco must have done that later – or maybe his father or mother.

There was nothing in front of the window – a desk perched on a wall and a bed on another. And Draco...on the bed. On his stomach.

She swallowed around the newly formed lump in her throat (and the image of Snape looking at her was almost gone from her head) and cleared her throat.

"Draco?" she asked, softly and the lumplike figure on the bed sat up immediately, staring at her wild-eyed.

"What in Elysium are you doing here, Granger?" he snapped angrily.

"I've come to say hello. Pay a visit," she smiled and tried to look confident and winning.

"You've said it, now you can leave again. I don't want anything to do with Mudbloods like yourself."

Her eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. He had not used that expression in a long while. "Excuse me?"

"Get out, Mudblood," he snarled and stood awfully straight and looked awfully...like the Malfoy she had despised and he talked like that as well. He had clearly been hit by something or...

Obviously. This was so obvious!

He had been hurt by Aideen and now he was reverting back to his old ways, back to the Malfoy who could not be hurt by someone. Who would not show emotions and who would insult everyone who wasn't like that. Aideen had hurt him so much that he couldn't do anything else, that he knew no other way.

"Well, the Mudblood here wants to know how you are," she said gently.

"I'm fine. Now crawl back to the hole you came from," he replied – angrily.

.

"Did I make my way here for nought?" Severus asked, his voice testy when the two men had sat for a few minutes – in absolute silence. He had been offered tea by a deranged house elf but that had been it. Lucius had only looked at him, had then looked out of the window and had looked at him again.

But at this, he focused on Severus and shook his head. But instead of talking, he stood up and rather stiffly, he made his way to a bookshelf, pulling out the familiar book. So he had been correct.

"It is true what he writes," Lucius said voicelessly. "I checked. Bellatrix's and Andromeda's 'condition' was probably caused by all this."

Severus didn't do anything – he didn't nod, he didn't look at Lucius. It wasn't necessary at all – Lucius himself was staring out of the window as well.

"It is, the books tell me, not improbable that Draco could have a similar 'condition'. Or Narcissa. She wants to get a divorce. She says I'm weak, by the way. Weak. Weak. I want what's best for my family, Severus. And I do not want a family full of...Narcissa is damaged. She hated Draco on sight. Well, no, but she hated to show him any kind of love. And I couldn't. I am the man, a mother should be able to hug her own son. And she didn't often and only as a reward. I agreed because it seemed like a sensible thing to do. But she was damaged. She cannot love. My wife cannot show love. And if I force Draco to marry a pureblood, from a family who's closely related to either the Blacks or my family, will he get completely deranged children? Or any children at all? I want my name to live on. I want the Malfoys to survive and to be respected and looked upon as a good wizarding family. I want Draco to be happy and with a wife who loves him and is able to show affection," his voice grew louder and more agitated, "I want sane, healthy grandchildren. And if they're only halfbloods, so be it. It's better than no grandchildren or Squibs. And if he won't comply and make up with that girl, I swear I will marry a random Muggle myself and produce healthy children."

The man had odd ideas, Severus thought. Truly odd ideas and he had no idea how to react.

"You have to bring her here," the blonde man continued. "You have to bring her. The Malfoy family needs her. We need fresh blood in the family. And if he likes her already, we don't have to look for anyone else. I'm sure the children will be wizards. There's no way around it. And you can bring her here. You're the perfect way between wizards and Muggles."

And the ideas – grew even odder.

.

"Draco, she loves you," she just ploughed on. "She's miserable and she misses you terribly. She asks for you every day and Mrs Callaghan misses you. They really do. Mrs Callaghan will be alone when Aideen goes to Uni again and she..."

"She will live on her own?" that was the first time he had interrupted her and she had so hoped he would. At this point. This was proof. Clearly. He still wanted her, he still loved her. He wanted to be with her and she had hurt him. Terribly. By running away.

She nodded. "She couldn't be swayed. She is basically almost back in her flat. The one she shared before? It's one less flatmate but her things are back already."

The Draco she had got to know in the past months, reappeared. His face was open and he seemed seriously concerned, seriously worried. She would play onto that.

"I'm not saying move back to Mrs Callaghan, even though I don't doubt she will welcome you with open arms but Draco, Aideen knows she's overreacted. She's talked to me and to Snape and she understands magic, I think. She understands what's happened and who you are..."

"Leave, Granger," he said and Malfoy appeared again. "I am not interested in her anymore."

.

He did not need to even switch on the radio. Granger, as well as him, was very quiet and just sat, normally, not stiffly, not slouching, in the car seat. It had been a lot to digest and even though he was curious as to what his godson had said to Granger before refusing to even let him into the room, he didn't feel able to open his mouth and ask. There was time enough. It was a long drive after all.

.

He sat there and drove. He just drove and kept his eyes on the road and after about an hour of driving, she felt well enough to speak. She kept her eyes away from him as well – it wouldn't do to look at him, and cleared her throat – as she had done earlier.

"He reverted to calling me Mudblood and he refuses to even consider going back but I know he still loves her. I mean, he basically threw me out. I have no idea why he's so stubborn about this. I mean she just ran away because she was shocked. Anyone would be. I mean imagine me telling Harry that I'd...I can't think of anything. But she was shocked and he acted too rashly. And he told her even without preamble, didn't he? I mean no warning, nothing. I'd be damn shocked if someone sprung that on me. And why did he refuse to talk to you? I thought you had a good connection? I mean he should talk to you. We've only been friends for a short while only but he did talk to me. Well, he let me talk..."

"It's hard not to let you talk," he mumbled, interrupting her.

"No, it's not," she shook her head and decided to keep her mouth shut – and that silence was rather uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable, to be honest. And the radio wasn't even on this time. She was close to tapping her foot on the ground (what was it called in the car? She didn't know...but it was a thought that kept her occupied for two minutes), to just hum or something when her thoughts returned to how he had made her feel before. With his hand on her bare arm and his eyes on hers. Now, he sat next to her and made her rather uncomfortable. Well, not quite. He was still there – but her fear was gone. Completely.

"Are you aware of a book called 'On Incest?'" he asked, suddenly, out of the blue.

"No, I don't think so," replied Hermione without losing a beat. Never heard of it.

"The House of Habsbug?"

"Those with the jaw?"

"Yes."

"I am. A bit," she nodded, and turned sideways on her car seat to have a better look at him.

"Incest produces not only a very characteristic jaws or..."

"And extra set of toes?" she guess and he scowled at the road in front of him.

"Mental instability. The book I mentioned was put on the Wizarding index in 1914..."

"There is an index?" she interrupted, unable to help herself.

"Will you stop interrupting?" he hissed angrily.

"Sorry."

"Lucius Malfoy came across that book and he is now of the opinion that 'fresh blood' has to be put into the incestuous Malfoy and Black family..."

"And he wants Draco and Aideen..."

"Granger, stop interrupting," he thundered.

"Sorry."

"But yes, he wants us, and I believe he thinks you will have to play a major part in this, to bring Aideen to Malfoy Manor and hence bringing those two back together," he seemed to have finished and she quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I doubt that...no. Snape, no. He made the mistake, he should go back to her. And bringing her to Malfoy Manor...that's like leading a lamb to slaughter. I can't..."

Snape looked at the road and said nothing. "Do you want me to bring Aideen there?" she asked impatiently.

"No," said he quietly. "I want you to tell Aideen to forget about Draco Malfoy."

.

_**Thanks! I hope you liked it even though it's sub-standard (I have reasons and my head is still somewhere else...)**_


	60. The Eyebrow Flash

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_When greeting over a distance people smile and nod; and if very friendly, they raise their eyebrows with a rapid movement, keeping the eyebrows maximally raised for approximately 1/6th of a second. [...]The pattern signals readiness for contact, as can be deduced from the contextual and sequential analyses. In Central Europe the eyebrow flash is used mainly as a greeting to good friends and relatives, but if people are reserved they do not use it. […] In some cultures the eyebrow flash is suppressed. In Japan, for example, it is considered as indecent. In Samoa, by contrast, it is regularly used in greeting and also as a general sign of approval or agreement, when seeking confirmation, and when beginning a statement in a dialogue. We use the sign in approximately the same situation though we perform it less readily in a greeting encounter. We use it in addition frequently during flirting, when strongly approving, when thanking, and during discussion – for example, when emphasizing a statement and thus calling for attention. We are normally not aware that we use this signal, but we respond strongly to it in greeting situations. We smile back and often answer with an eyebrow flash. However, if we are not familiar with the person we experience embarrassment. […]_

_By looking for other contexts in which eyebrow raising occurs we get hints as to its possible phylogenetic origin. People regularly raise their eyebrows during surprise and hold them in this position for a while. The same movement pattern occurs during a conversation when people as questions. […]_

_Finally, we raise the eyebrows during disapproval, indignation, and when we loot at a person in an admonishing way, a pattern reminiscent of the threat stare of a number of infra-human primates. Again this admonishing look at the same time signals attention. _

(Eibl-Eibesfeldt in Hinde, 1972)

.

"Why?" Granger asked, and for a second, Severus dragged his eyes off the road and to hers. Again that wide-eyed look that, if he didn't know better, would certainly imply that she was rather dim-witted and hadn't just listened to him. Looked as if she couldn't draw the simplest deductions. He quickly turned his eyes back on the road, just in time not to run over a swerving bicycle driver. Those should remain off the roads.

"Did you not listen to me?" asked he and he felt his eyebrows rising ever so slightly.

"You don't want her to go there because Malfoy wants them to be together?" she asked, twisting in her seat further to face him.

"No, Granger. But if she gets there, she will be married to Draco within the next few months."

"But why? I mean you only said that he needed fresh blood, not that he needs it now. Wait, that sounded a bit vampiry. You know what I mean..."

"Unfortunately, I do," he had to smirk. He had heard others describe him as a vampire but never Lucius.

"And?"

"And nothing. Aideen is not fresh blood," he said and, because he truly didn't want to explain further, he fumbled blindly with the radio and tried to switch it on. Barely a second later, his hand was pushed away – pushed away – and it was Granger who turned it on, looking at him, he thought. Pushed _his_ hand away.

.

"He's very sweet," said Aideen, quietly and handed the boy who still looked like Snape, "and quite quiet and happy. Gran gave him a bit banana about one and a half hours ago so he will be hungry again soon, I suppose."

Hermione nodded – but this wasn't what she wanted to talk about with Aideen and she could see that she was itching for news as well. Now was the opening. Mrs Callaghan had dragged Severus into the living room (probably to talk to him) and she sat alone, with Ted, in the kitchen.

"Aideen," said she – slowly and carefully, looking at her. When she had met her and until that thing with the abduction and of course with Draco's whatever that had been, she had always looked so happy, rosy cheeks and all that. Her eyes always sparkling and now – her skin had a greyish tinge and her eyes were dulled by pain. Her arm was still in the cast as well and she had to speak in front of the Wizengamot. Wouldn't work if she was still unprepared – but now was not the time. Now, she had to talk to her about Draco and...

Snape was, in some ways, correct. If Aideen was merely accepted because she was in no way related to any Wizards at all, had no Wizarding blood, then it was better if those two stayed apart. However, she, other than Snape, had seen Draco and how he had reacted when he had told him about Aideen going back to Uni and living alone there. And that was the component that Snape didn't know about. Draco loved her. Draco was hurt, Draco wanted to be with her. Otherwise, she would listen to his advice, well, command.

But like this? No. Not that she would drag Aideen to Malfoy Manor. No, that place would give anyone the creeps. Another way to get those two together again. In the Muggle world. Or half-and-half. But not solely the Wizarding world, as she suspected, Malfoy wanted. Would probably isolate Aideen and keep her only as a broodmare. That wouldn't do.

"I saw Draco," she said quickly.

"Gran said," replied Aideen and cuddled Ted to her chest, stroking his chubby baby-fingers with her slim ones.

"He's, erm...shite, Aideen, I won't lie and tell you that he's miserable. He is, but he tries not to show it. He's retreated back to his old self and...:"

"What was his old self?" she asked quietly.

"He looked down on everything and everyone and he belittled all people. He believed that Muggles and Muggleborns like me were not even worth talking to, or looking at. He thinks he's better and..."

"Why?"

"It's an...you know how the Nazis believed they were better than the Jews? It's the same principle. I don't know if there was a certain point which started the hatred of the so-called purebloods against half-bloods or Muggleborns or Muggles, but quintessentially, they feel threatened by Muggle society. So they think they're better and Draco's father was a big believer in those things. He followed..."

"Lord Voldemort," interrupted Aideen "Gran explained."

"Draco didn't?"

Aideen shook her head and rocked Ted, who had just yawned terribly and almost lip-splittingly. "He only said that he was a Wizard, as was Severus, or had been Severus and that his aunt had taken me because of him..." she stopped and pressed Ted closer to herself, almost cuddling him to death.

"He said it just like that? Idiot..."

"No, it was a bit more elaborate," said Aideen tiredly, brushing her fingers through Ted's almost-Snape hair. "But in essence, that was it."

"And you wanted to..."

"I wanted to get a clear head. I didn't want him to leave," a tear trickled down her face and Ted, who seemed to notice her distress made gurgling noises at her and pressed a probably very wet and very sloppy kiss on her cheek.

"Deen sad," the little boy said.

She smiled at the little one and kissed him back.

"He...Aideen, he loves you. I don't doubt that. But his father...I don't trust his father."

She shook her head and buried her head into Ted's Snapeish hair and said nothing anymore.

.

"Well?" asked Eleanor, almost impatiently. "Is he coming back?" She had babysitted, she deserved an answer. Well, in all honesty, Aideen had watched over Teddy, had cooed and had played with him, had fed him and had talked to him. That girl...she couldn't possibly let her go. It was only about fifteen minutes to Uni with the bus, and she couldn't let her granddaughter live alone. They could redecorate the guestroom, turn it into a room for Aideen only, but she wouldn't allow her to live alone. She wanted Aideen with her and she wanted her girl happy. And she hadn't been happy since that incident – even less happy since Draco had left.

That silly boy. She wanted to seriously hit his father for doing this to the boy and her granddaughter. Kick his groin, too. And Draco too, for actually listening to his father.

"He isn't," said Severus. "And I believe it's best for Aideen that he doesn't."

"What? Why?" she shrieked. Well, almost shrieked. She didn't usually shriek.

Severus, the poor boy, looked incredibly tired and worn out and for a brief moment, Eleanor hoped that this woman of his wasn't just a friend but was rather someone who could console him. Not in the purely physical way like man and wife and maybe a hug and a kiss would be fine. And helpful for that poor boy who had helped her and her granddaughter so much and who had even gone into the Malfoy's lion den to get Draco back for her and for Aideen. And now he looked even more drawn than before, more tired, more exhausted.

"It's a long story," he said tiredly. "But he is not good for her. She will get hurt beyond everything imaginable. She will get hurt like never before and she will be kept away from her family."

"What? Why? Draco wouldn't do that."

"Draco is still under the thumb of his father and Lucius's influence is less than sane. Eleanor, keep her away from Draco. It will hurt, yes, but it will not be good for either of them."

"Severus...I don't know you like this;" she whispered, shocked and aghast.

"Lucius will say the same thing about me, I'm sure, but I do not trust him. He has got it in his head that Draco must produce healthy children and according to him, that is only possible with a Muggle, and since Aideen is there, she seems the logical choice. But if she agrees to this, she and Draco will not be happy. She will be made to live with them, be under their rule and as a Muggle, she will always be the outsider, she will never be accepted. She will grow lonely, and she will grow depressed."

"But she loves him. I believe that," Eleanor said, convinced. But what he said...she hadn't seriously considered their future together – but what would it mean? For Draco, with his magic, to be selling suits for the rest of his life and being half supported by his wife? Aideen the would-be doctor and him working in retail? That would never work. Men in general didn't like women earning more, being smarter, being better and she couldn't honestly see Draco as someone who would be happy to stay home with the children – and that was clearly a woman's job in the first place.

"I don't doubt Draco loves her. But they are world's apart," he replied wearily. "I..."

"Thank you for trying," she answered honestly. "What does he say, by the way?"

"He didn't want to speak with me," snorted Severus. "He's back to his old spoiled ways and I can't blame him."

"Hm," she said, arching her eyebrows disapprovingly. "Do you think you can manage to bring him here?"

.

"Erm, I have, maybe, an idea," said Hermione, slowly.

"What?" asked Aideen, her eyebrows raised slightly, Ted asleep on her lap, his head resting on her chest, his mouth open adorably. She would make a good sitter for him for future situations like that – her having to help Snape and...oh better not think about it. She loved the little one and Hermione had to admit that she was just the tiniest bit jealous. It had taken herself rather long to warm up to the toddler and Aideen had barely spent half a day with him and they got along swimmingly. Unfair. But oh well.

"I could send you Harry's owl and you can maybe, you know, if you like, owl Draco. It's like the post but quicker."

"I know that you send owls. Severus told me," she said a little coldly, stonily. "Not Draco, not you. You all lied to me. Severus had to tell me and Severus is the one who lost so much thanks to all of you. He protected Draco, didn't he? He protected you."

"He told you that?" asked Hermione, shocked.

"No of course not," she spat and almost roughly, pulled the boy from her lap and dumped him in Hermione's lap. Well, it wasn't dumped, really. It was putting there gently, but her expression was thunderous. Hermione didn't understand where that sudden change of tune came from – and so sudden. Ten minutes of silence and Aideen was angry as a provoked hag.

"What's going on?" she asked quietly.

"You think you can fix everything with magic and with owls. Didn't you just say that it was a bad idea to get on with Draco and with Draco's father? That eventually, he'd look down on me? That deep down, he thinks I'm less than him. He does now, doesn't he? He didn't wait for me to calm down a bit. And that aunt of his, I was easy prey for her, wasn't I? The closest I want to come to a wizard in the future is Severus," she hissed and vanished out of the door quickly.

She sat, defeated. That had most certainly not gone as planned...not at all. She had counted on the fact that both of them loved one another...and if Aideen reacted like that, was her assumption correct? If Aideen didn't love Draco, she didn't have to try to get them together at all – that'd be futile and a wasted effort. She snuggled Ted closer to her chest and smelled his hair and his skin and dropped a kiss on his head. It seemed likely that she was only lashing out. It was possible that she was just as hurt as Draco was and that she projected her hurt onto magic in general. And wariness of magic wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a Muggle. If she was aware of that, however...

She felt so stupid now, fighting so hard to not have her obliviated. It would have made things so much simpler. She wouldn't be hurt, Draco would have a real reason to be hurt and she wouldn't hate her. Hermione closed her eyes, thinking about the fact that it had maybe been partly her fault that Aideen had just ran out of the kitchen, that she was angry, that she still relied on magic for almost anything and even magical means of postal service and that she hadn't understood that Aideen was, maybe, a little afraid of magic. And she had gone on and on about magic. Well, not quite but mentioning that owl had been a bad idea.

Hermione groaned, her eyes tightly shut. She wasn't sure why she still sat there, in that kitchen but it seemed rude to just leave.

"And?" she heard that voice again, deep and rumbling. Her head wanted to shoot up and look at him but it didn't need to. She knew what he looked like standing there. His hands would be knitted together behind his back, his head held high and his back erect, his right eyebrow would be arched and his mouth would be in a straight line.

"And she hates magic, I think," she said tiredly into Ted's hair.

"So you could persuade her to..."

"I don't want to persuade her," her head shot up now. "I believe they'd go well together if both of them could find some kind of middle ground." She glared at him and he did look exactly what she had envisioned him to look inside her head. Just like that – well, his eyebrow was arched up even higher. "I'm going home," she said and picked up Ted – who, while he slept looked nothing like Snape. Looked more like himself. A blend between Tonks and Remus. Like a young, sleeping child.

"I'm sorry I mentioned the owl but I doubt a postman could find Malfoy Manor," she said without looking at him as she carried Ted outside the back door and apparated away.

.

Severus had nothing else to do. Eleanor was lost in her own thoughts, Aideen was upstairs being angry with Granger and Draco and quite possibly the entire world as well as him and he just wanted to forget being back at the Manor, forget that his godson didn't want to talk to him. Wanted to forget that he did not want those two to be together and at the same time, wanted both of them happy. He wanted them to be happy – and if possible, happy together – but he couldn't see that happening. Not with Lucius being overly impressed by one silly book and him thinking women were supposed to be only there to carry children and bring them into the world. If Lucius kept that opinion and if Lucius didn't see that women were to be respected, and not used, Aideen would never have a chance of happiness – and neither was his godson. Not together.

And how would that look , he thought as he made his way to the woman he did, er, well, use, a family meeting, Lucius amongst all the Callaghans. No, he couldn't imagine it, not for the life of him. And neither could he imagine Annie Deveney in between all them.

He snorted at himself. Preaching one thing and doing the exact opposite. Granted, he didn't use her as a broodmare but...

No, he didn't want to think about that now. He wanted to be selfish for once. He had tried to fix things, had tried to see through all this for the sake of others. Now, he wanted, for an hour or two, think only about himself and what he needed and wanted. Nothing else.

.

A pair of eyes were focused on the dark-clad man and silent steps followed him as he walked along the rows of houses. A body hid in the shadows when the dark-clad man in the leather jacket stopped and knocked on a door and within that body, something constricted and a pair of eyebrows arched, when a pair of eyes fell on a very pretty, brunette woman.

.

_**Thank you!**_


	61. Gossip

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_When woman talk to each other, the term _gossip_ is often used to describe their activity, and in popular parlance this term is negatively loaded (it is rarely said of a group of men that they are gossiping). In anthropology and sociolinguistics, however no negative connotations are attached to the term _gossip_, which is used to refer to 'informal communication between member of a social group (Coates 1986/1993: 115). Gossip has the important function of maintaining the group's unity, morals and values (D. Jones 1980), and contains all the features that characterise women's way of interacting in conversation. It is a form of interaction which increases and reflects solidarity and support, and in which expressions intended to reflect or gain power for a speaker have no place. _

_These gender-related differences in speech patterns are acquired by children as they learn to speak (Coates 1986/1993; chapter 7), just as other gender stereotypes (how boys should be behave and how girls should behave) and cultural values in general are learned along with language. _

(Malmkjaer, 1991)

.

Miss Pike was Catholic. She was proud to be Catholic. In church, she met a lot of other Catholic woman and it was always good to talk to them. On Sundays, at church, or on any other day when she met one of the woman (and men) who went to church with her. Miss Pike liked to hear the news. She liked to remain informed about what was going on and Miss Pike had, in all honesty, not much else to do. Never married, never even close (well, there was talk that there had once been a man with piercing blue eyes that her sister, the late Miss Pike, had driven away but maybe it was just talk, nobody knew), and by now, in her early sixties, not even interested in getting married or having a companion appealed to her. Miss Pike was happy with her role as knowing all the news and passing them from person to person.

Miss Pike liked her dark-blue striped shirts and plain blue skirts, her sensible Oxfords, and she always made it a point to cut her own hair rather short. She was a bit chubby but since she wore those sensible dresses with the stripes, she knew it wasn't too bad. Sometimes, she had difficulties walking but news and her nice Oxfords helped.

If Miss Pike didn't hear news, she was often grumpy and moody and snapping at people. As such, other people tried to keep her from being grumpy and moody and told her news.

But Miss Pike, tall and strongly built and underlining that by her striped shirts and blouses and plain blue skirts and sensible Oxfords, always made it a point of directly confronting those about whom she had news. She didn't want to tell untruths. Not at all. Never.

And so, because she had heard from Julia and Katherine Smith that something strange had happened to Eleanor Callaghan's granddaughter, on this Tuesday morning, Miss Anita Pike took the rather long hike up to Spinner's End. Oh, that Snape boy lived there again, she remembered. But that was old news. It had been interesting for a while, Eileen and Tobias's son returning for good but now they were used to him. And he never went to church. Was he Catholic? Miss Pike didn't know. Eleanor Callaghan had made it quite clear that the Snape boy was out of bounds and that they should leave him alone. And oddly enough, Eleanor Callaghan's word carried some weight. She was old, after all and had seen a lot. Had celebrated her 83rd birthday, already and still walked to church every Sunday and still drove her little Panda.

But Eleanor Callaghan would not like her coming to her house. But – if something had really happened to her granddaughter, it would be only right to bring by the chocolates. And flowers. And both of that, Miss Pike carried. It was always better to bring something. It softened people. But Eleanor Callaghan, was a tough one. Eleanor Callaghan had her own view of things and if she decided to not like you, she didn't like you. Eleanor Callaghan didn't like Miss Pike.

And Eleanor Callaghan was just as big a gossip, if not bigger, than Miss Anita Pike.

Still – Miss Pike wanted to know the truth about Eleanor Callaghan's granddaughter having had an accident (those were the rumours – a strange accident – a rape on other accounts and a kidnapping on yet another account) and whether she told other people or not remained yet to be seen. That, however, didn't change the fact that she was ever so slightly nervous about knocking on Eleanor Callaghan's door. That woman was truly respected.

.

Hermione woke in a cold sweat and there was really, she thought, no reason for that. Her first day at Uni had gone extraordinarily well. She had learned, apart from the obvious, theoretical parts, what she could do with a BA, or an MA in Maths and she was, well, rather happy with it. And the rest of the lectures (four others, in total – nobody did so much) were rather interesting, and lovely, as well. There was a long list of books she had to acquire, or copy, but that wasn't the reason to wake up in an almost blind panic.

No, the cold sweat and the panic had more to do with...nightmares. She was familiar with them. She had them regularly. Herself being killed by Bellatrix, others killed by Bellatrix, herself watching herself being tortured, or pretending she was Bellatrix and scared to death, herself...basically, she was reliving what had happened in her life, her recent past, in her dreams.

This one had been different, at least as far as she could remember.

What she could remember was...herself and Snape. Both of them. But not in mortal peril. Both of them together. Well, not really. Herself asleep on a sofa or a couch. His couch, upon further inspection. She, asleep on his couch and him there, waking her. Him, Snape, kneeling on the floor next to the couch or sofa, his couch, kissing her nose softly, then kissing her eyebrows softly, and waking her, saying 'Wake up, my love, my life'..

Utter rubbish. Oh but that dream...it had been almost too real.

He had knelt there in that dream and had kissed her, brushed her hair away, had spoken so softly and had help her and had kissed her and... he had called her his love and his life.

Utter rot. Rot. Rubbish.

She had to focus on Uni, on maths, and definitely not on Snape and how gently he could possibly be – in her dreams. My love, my life.

Pathetic. It was truly pathetic to think something. And based only upon...what? A hand on her arm? A gentle look in his eyes? A weird undertone to his voice? Consoling her – more or less obviously.

Based on nothing.

But...no. It had been a dream, triggered by thinking about him and by thinking about what he did and how his first at uni was and...it was all easily explainable. Very simple. Oh but her stomach hurt and her head hurt and she had to get ready to go to uni and she was worried how to see him again.

Aideen didn't want to talk to her anymore and Hermione hadn't dared to email her either. She had been tempted. Every time since she had apparated home with Ted when she had just left her sitting, Hermione had thought about emailing her. Or texting her. Just asking how she was – but something had held her back. Aideen was still in shock about the entire Wizard-thing and Hermione couldn't blame her. It would be naturally difficult for her and she felt that she had put her foot in her mouth too many times already.

She dragged herself out of bed though, knowing she would have plenty of time for a shower and for a quick chat over breakfast with Harry and Ron. She had to admit that she quite enjoyed living with those two. Not that they were very interested in her studies or how her day had gone but they at least tried to feign interest. And they provided her with some sort of comic relief – especially with Ted present.

It was just fun to watch Ron trying to feed the baby spinach. The green spots had gone amazingly well with his green hair. She had to give it to him though – he hadn't given up. Ted could fire as much spinach as he liked onto Ron – he had kept feeding him. Stoically. Very amazing.

The water was hot and felt good on her neck and her back, gently massaging out the knots she could feel from being hunched over books too long – and she tried to wash away her dream but that proved to be unwashable. It just remained in her head.

His couch. My love, my life. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

And as much as she scrubbed – it was still in her head. In his voice in her head. It was still there, oddly enough. Had been a dream. Would never be real. Didn't even know whether she wanted this to become reality.

Ah well – if he was like he had been in the dream, then...no. It would be much more fun to have a Snap by her side who was snarky and mean and sarcastic but would show that side only when it was her. Imagine that – everyone thinking he was an utter git and only she would know better. Only to her, he would be like this. My love, my life.

Ridiculous.

.

Severus had a new task. It wasn't – by any means – as dangerous or as interesting as having been a spy, less exhausting, too, but it was a new task and one that he gladly took. This had been now the second morning that he had, after waking, having breakfast and showering, he walked over to Eleanor's house and picked up Aideen. He brought Aideen to the bus, walked her to her building, watched as she walked inside, then went to his own classes, left a bit early and brought her home again. Accompanied her, really.

That was his new task. Making sure that Aideen got to Uni safe and that she made it home safely. It had been Eleanor that had asked but he had been able to see, clearly, that Aideen was relieved to have him by her side. And since she was mostly quiet in the mornings and hadn't said much on the way back home, he didn't matter all that much. He had to get into Manchester and to Uni himself.

Glad though, that he hadn't yet seen Annie Deveney somewhere around. He knew how he would behave but he couldn't guarantee that she wasn't of the type who'd jump in in broad daylight amongst many, many people. Well – maybe not jump him but try and...kiss him. That wasn't done. Definitely not. Or to touch him even. No no.

And with Aideen by his side, and her need to get home accompanied, he didn't have to stick around University and think about seeing her. Well, yes, he had spent every evening with her but...he knew she felt more for him than he felt for her but somehow...

Well, he didn't know how to stop going to see her. He didn't and he wasn't ready for that step if he was honest with himself. It was too – relaxing, to be honest. And he had never told her that he more than liked her. And a relationship? He had never been in a relationship like this. He didn't know how to behave. He didn't know the protocol. He didn't know how to act.

And it wasn't important now because Aideen had at least partly got her voice back and spoke to him. She wasn't chattering like someone he knew. She wasn't babbling like the same person. She was just...talking. Not like Granger. Granger was unstoppable once she started. Well, maybe if one fumbled with the radio, she could be shut up.

"And Mary said that Louise had said that you're hot," she grinned a bit cheekily and that was something he hadn't seen in a while.

"What?" he spluttered.

"Louise thinks you're hot," she still grinned.

"What?"

"Seriously, Severus, my friend Mary said that my friend Louise said that she thinks you're hot. And Mary agrees with her. It's not so hard to understand. Hot. H-O-T. Hot. As in...sexy, as in desirable, as in...hot."

Severus sat in the bus with his mouth open and could only stare at the girl. It took him close to a minute to get his bearings back and when he did, he still believed that she was messing with him. But – he was glad the girl could at least make fun of him again. Even if she did use her two friends. She was clearly making a joke. Nobody could think him...h-h-ho... well, that word.

He scowled at her. "Now you've had your joke," he said snarkily. "And that's why we have roast on Sunday, not whatever it was you wanted."

Aideen smiled at him – and a moment later, put her head on his shoulder. "I am being honest," she said gently, looking up at him. "They all think you're hot."

Rolling his eyes, he pushed his shoulder up and let it fall – making it impossible for her head to stay there. She shook her head, smiling, and got up from her seat, letting him follow her. Home.

.

"Hermione? Are you..." Ron asked, his ears blushing.

"Am I what?"

"Okay?" Harry answered instead.

"Yeah, why?"

"You seem...is Uni alright? I mean...is everything going okay there?" asked Ron, still blushed slightly.

"Oh yes, Uni is fun. We had analysis I, and geometry I and a sort of introduction. There will be a tutorial about writing papers scientifically and..."

"Okay, okay, we get it," Harry laughed. "So it's not Uni," he said to Ron a sort of stage whisper.

"What?" she snapped.

"This. You're short-tempered and annoyed and angry lately...well, for the last three days or so. You only snap and you..."

Hermione sighed, then put her chin in her hands. "It's Aideen. She's...she was truly angry with me and with magic. And...I mean I don't know what to do because I don't want her to resent magic and I want her to be with Draco and..."

"She's hopeless," muttered Ron.

"Have you talked to her?" Harry asked, ignoring their red-headed friend.

She shook her head. "I can't just email her or call her. She'd resent that even more. I've put my mouth in with her too many times, I think."

Harry blushed now, scratching his head. "I, erm, I mean...why don't you email Snape and ask him about her if you're worried?"

.

"Anita, I don't think that's any of your business," said Eleanor so loudly that he could hear her from the hall already. Anita? Didn't know any Anitas but it was maybe one of her church women. Idiotic busybodies who had nothing better to do than gossip all day long. He and Aideen exchanged a glance and it seemed, the girl had lost her good mood, she was pallid and her fingers shook slightly. Her eyes were wide and...she was afraid.

Of course. She was afraid of people she didn't know immediately around. Traumatised.

She tucked her hand on the crook of his elbow and asked, silently, permission to do so. He said nothing, made absolutely no comment, he didn't allow his face to show any kind of emotion but he let her rest her hand there and slowly walked towards the kitchen, towards the angry voice of Eleanor's and another voice, he didn't know.

"No, it's none of your business. Aideen is fine and nothing happened to her," Eleanor snapped angrily.

The girl's eyes widened and she looked up at him for reassurance. He had done it before. He had done it before with Granger. Couldn't be so difficult with Aideen. Aideen was closer to him than Granger.

"Stupid bint," he growled and he tried to...well, smile at Aideen. It seemed to work since she moved a bit closer to him, her cheek against his upper arm and his entire arm in a vice-like grip.

She nodded slowly and together, they pushed the door to the kitchen open and saw – two women. Eleanor and another one, fat and tall, standing opposite one another like they were duelling but then, suddenly, the eyes of the unknown woman – presumably Anita – rested on them and they grew exponentially and she sucked in some breath.

Well – it was really no surprise. If this was one of those church biddies, and if that church biddy saw him and Aideen so close together – the gossip for next week was already made.

.

_**Thanks!**_

_**Don't you just love gossip? :D**_


	62. Gender and Language

**_The usual disclaimers apply. _**

**_For _atomicmum _because she wanted something that billowed. _**

.

_In contemporary English, there are many reported differences in the talk of males and females. In same gender pairs having conversations, women generally discuss their personal feelings more than men. Men appear to prefer non-personal topics such as sport and news. Men tend to respond to an expression of feelings or problems by giving advice on solutions, while women are more likely to mention personal experiences that match of connect with the other woman's. There is a pattern documented in American English social contexts of women co-operating and seeking connection via language, whereas men are more competitive and concerned with power via language. In mixed-gender pairs having conversations, the rate of men reported to use more expressions associated with tentativeness, such as 'hedges' _(sort of, kind of) _and 'tags' _(isn't it?, don't you?), _when expressing an opinion: _Well, em, I think that golf is kind of boring, don't you?

(Yule, 1995)

.

"Your mother and I have divorced," he said, emotionless.

"What?" he asked, his eyes wide and...he wasn't sure what he felt. Revulsion...no. Surprise...maybe. Shock...definitely. He knew by the way his father was not talking about his mother. And by the way she wasn't there. Hadn't heard anything from her at all after her visit to...well.

And that came – that announcement – after his father had stayed out all day long that day and the day before and the one before that. Not that he had told Draco where he had gone. So quickly, too. Usually, divorces took a long time. Years, sometimes, if there were problems with property or money and he could see his parents fighting even over the last remaining bit of silver. Not that there was much left. Or maybe his mother had taken what was left and...it was none of his business. He was the son, he wasn't supposed to know, he didn't want to know. Well, he did, but that didn't fit into his new image, the new Draco Malfoy he wanted to be. The perfect son and the perfect pureblood heir. He would be that person. No matter what. And the perfect pureblood son wasn't interested in his parents' reasons for divorce. He would accept it with grace. Or as much grace as he could muster. And he would not ask his father where he had been the past few days. Not that his father would tell him anyway. They didn't talk about such things.

Come to think about it – they didn't talk at all. Eating in silence, then retreating to the library, or going to their respective rooms. A quick good morning and a quick good night and most days, that was the extent of their conversation. It didn't matter.

He would go and look for a job, or at least something to do. Some way to get some money back. That was what he wanted. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Your mother and I have divorced," his father repeated suddenly. "She will return her on Saturday to get her personal things and I'd ask you to stay here to let her in and see what she takes."

"Control her?" asked Draco indignantly at being told what to do and at being interrupted in his train of thought.

"See what she takes," his father said coldly and stood up, leaving Draco once more, alone in the dining room, the rest of his dinner still in front of him. And the rest of his father's dinner on the opposite side of the table. He hadn't eaten all that much himself, Draco noticed.

The young, blonde wizard shrugged to himself. It should not matter to him anyway.

.

Severus hissed. He literally hissed as he stared at the screen of his laptop. Bloody woman. Bloody woman had the nerve to contact him, to email him. And where in the name of all that was holy or unholy had she got his email address from? Not from him. Certainly not from him.

Draco, his brain whispered – or Aideen. Either one of those knew his address and could have easily given it to her. Bloody woman.

Bloody woman was on his mind too bloody often in any case. Just the other night when Annie had forced him into a cuddle (not that he would call it that. He would call it – holding the woman he just had sex with), he had noticed how different the feel of her thighs were. Compared to that bit that he had felt of Granger's. Which was, of course, utterly ridiculous. She was a girl. Granger was a girl, not a woman. She was...what? Nineteen? Twenty? Almost twenty, as far as he remembered. And he, nearing his fortieth birthday.

_Snape_, she had written,

_I just wanted to know how Aideen was. I'm very worried about her and if I can do anything, please tell me. She probably won't welcome any emails from me and so I'm writing to you. I hope you don't mind. _

_Hermione Granger. _

How was Aideen? How the hell was he supposed to know? As far as he knew, she had made quite a lot of progress. She had almost spat in Anita Pike's face and had told that woman how ridiculous she was. Combined with his patented Death-Eating-Gryffindor-Eating-Glare, she had vanished as quickly as she could. Aideen had seen through that woman as quickly as he had, it had seemed. Not that he would be able to control what kind of rumour she spread. Eleanor would probably be able to see that it didn't spread too far. Or that it was choked right from the start.

He punched angrily on his keyboard – and didn't even consider not answering. No, he was just answering that ridiculous email. He completely forgot the option to ignore it.

_Granger, _

_Aideen is fine and she probably will welcome any emails from you more than I do. _

_S_

.

The words, Hermione thought, were one thing. The fact that he had replied about a minute after she had sent the email, another. And it was all relative, wasn't it – Aideen wanted her emails more badly than he did but if she wanted an email from her very, very badly, he would welcome hers. All relative.

She giggled to herself – of course that was rubbish. He didn't want to hear from her but...if he responded so quickly, he couldn't mind all that much if she did get in touch with him. And maybe, he did want to know when Aideen was supposed to speak before the Wizengamot and that Andromeda was still in custody. He probably didn't want to know that Ted still looked, more often than not, like him. Something about Snape had him hooked, the little man. Didn't know what it was and it didn't matter. It looked astonishingly cute to see the little one try and scowl.

She still giggled gently at her computer and hit the reply button, her fingers poised upon the keys. She wasn't sure what to write. It had been so clear in her head a moment ago, and now, it was all – gone.

_Snape_,

she wrote and that was as far as she got. It wasn't as simple as the first one had been. What was she supposed to write? Ted looks like you. Andromeda has gone mad. They haven't set the date for Aideen and the Wizengamot yet.

It was all rubbish.

She pressed the backspace button slowly, deleting the Snape she had written, too, the giggle gone, replaced by a frown.

Instead, her fingers typed slowly – another email.

_Dear Aideen,_ it began,

_I hope you don't mind emailing you like this. I am really very sorry about the other day but you see I never had to know tact. I mean, my best friends when I was younger were two boys and tact was absolutely lost on them. You have met Harry, I think, but you would realise that Ron, who was, and probably is, my other best friend, is just as tactless and just as clueless when it comes to hinting at things. I'm not looking for excuses but I'm not used to not stating the obvious, or what seems to be the obvious to me. You could say that, apart from Ron's little sister with whom I had sporadic contact throughout school, you are the first female friend I have. Again, not seeking excuses, just stating what is. With them, I had to be blatant and...oh, let me start at the beginning. _

_I don't know how much your grandmother or Snape has told you but Harry was the one who had to defeat the evil wizard. Of course I didn't know that when I befriended him. Actually, when I befriended him, he had, together with Ron, just rescued me from a rather foolish thing. I was hiding in a bathroom when there was a magical creature, back at school, trying basically kill, then eat me. Or maybe the other way around. I don't want to bore you with the minutiae of my life at Hogwarts, the school I, Harry and Ron went to, the school Snape taught at but I want to explain why I put my foot in my mouth. As I said, I befriended Harry and Ron sort of came with him. It seemed to be a package deal. And those two were prone to adventures and they pulled me into them. It would be too much to explain them all in this email but I was the one who read the books and who loved finding answers to questions, riddles or tasks. They relied on me, more or less, to find a way for them and if I didn't state that way in plain, monosyllabic words, they were lost. Not all of the time but mostly. I was twelve when I made friends with them and it's been almost eight years that we've gone through thick and thin. It got so used to being obvious and to being honest and rushing straight out with an answer that I didn't even consider for a moment to think that mentioning an owl, or a magical way of contacting Draco would hurt you. And I don't truly mean to mention magic now, it's just that I can hardly explain how our friendship began without mentioning my school, which was, in every way, magical. _

_But, as I said, those are boys and I cannot and don't want to, compare you to them. Quite on the contrary. It is a shame that I couldn't help you come to terms with being abducted and being exposed, such as it is, to the Wizarding World. I grew up in a family like yours, I was an only child and my parents were dentists in the South of England. I know what it's like to be suddenly confronted with the knowledge that there is an entirely different world existing parallel to 'ours'. I can remember asking loads of questions in the beginning – how come we never know there is a such a world, how come we_ _never notice that there is a society we never see? I understand that you might have an abhorrence for the Wizarding World now, especially after the way Andromeda Tonks treated you. But let me tell you, not all of the Wizards are alike. Most of those in higher social standings and having a sort of responsibility are morons. If they weren't, they would have caught Mrs Tonks long before she had the chance to abduct you, or wouldn't have stripped Snape of his magic. But such as it is, there is decent folk amongst them as well. You met Harry and if you like, you can meet more of them. I'm not forcing you, I just try to tell you that not all of us (and I do count myself amongst the Wizarding kind in this context) are like that. _

_I don't mean to sound arrogant, please believe me that. I just ask of you that you see that the person who abducted you was a nut and a weirdo. She will be locked away in any case. I hope you forgive me for putting my foot in my mouth and I hope to hear from you soon. _

_Hermione. xx_

She clicked send before she could change her mind and then, opening another window, typed before she could change her mind and before she could begin to think.

_Snape, _

_I'm not sure what to tell you. I did email Aideen and I hope she's not too angry with me. I'm not asking you to put in a good word for me but she means a lot to me and I know that she listens to you. Who wouldn't? I really didn't want to hurt her and I dpn't mean to annoy you. _

_Hermione Granger. _

Hermione manoeuvred the mouse to 'send', then closed her eyes and clicked. The email was sent and gone by the time she reopened her eyes – and by the same time, she was about ready to kick herself for writing two such stupid things. Emails were horrible.

.

"Severus?" she asked very slowly and rather deliberately.

"What?" he asked, laying in, well, what was commonly referred to as post-coital bliss.

"I bought you a bathrobe," she smiled, resting her head on his chest and smiling at him.

"Thank you," he replied rather stiffly. Those cuddles were – annoying. Oh, he had to be honest with her. He had to end this. It was utter ridiculousness to keep this thing going when he knew it wasn't even a thing, when he knew he was playing with her.

"Well, put it on then," she smirked, pointing towards the bedroom door where two bathrobes hung. One in a light, powdery blue, the other in an abominable shade of brown. He had seen the powdery blue one before and so she had bought him a brown bathrobe. Terrible colour. And what was she thinking buying him that anyway? He did usually get dressed after the holding she needed. He got dressed and he went home. Usually. He didn't stay even if she asked him to.

"Annie," he said slowly, pushing her off of him.

"Try it on, I wanna see it on," she said with a smile.

No, he had to end this. It wasn't going anywhere and that woman was getting attached. Attached was bad. Attached was very, very bad. Not that he knew why she was getting attached. Not that he could understand. Maybe someone had hit her with a Confundus or maybe she was just mentally ill, who knew. But he had to walk away before she could...do something odd. Something odder than buying him a bathrobe. Like confessing her feelings or something.

"I don't..."

"Come on," she said. "Don't be such a spoilsport."

He grimaced and walked, with as much dignity as he could muster, towards the bedroom door, pulling on the bathrobe. It was...erm. Soft. Too soft. And too smelly. Not badly smelling, but rather...too much washing powder. Or the wrong kind of washing powder.

He took two steps and caught himself in her overly large mirror...the bathrobe in the abominable shade of brown billowed.

It billowed. Like his robes had.

Billowed.

"No," he said rushedly. "I can't." He yanked the bathrobe off himself and threw it on the bed.

"Severus?"

"I can't do this," he said, not daring to look her in the eye.

"Can't do what?"

"This!" he gestured between her and him – without looking at her. "This."

"But..."

"I can't do this," he repeated and even to his own ears, his voice sounded too calm. Bathrobes didn't billow. They weren't supposed to billow. They were usually too short to billow decently. His own bathrobe didn't billow. Well, the old tatty one didn't and he had bothered to buy a new one. Bathrobes did not billow.

They. Did. Not. Billow.

Nothing but his robes had billowed.

He shook his head once more.

"Are you finishing me?" she asked, not fearful as he had suspected but rather...dignified. Rather calmly. He hadn't expected her to sound so calm. To look so calm, to just lay there, naked still.

"Yes," he said, putting on his boxers and his socks. Wanting to get out. As quickly as possible. One never knew with women. One never knew when they pulled their switch from calm to anger. They had such a switch. Aideen had it. Eleanor had it. Granger most certainly had it.

"Does this have anything to do with that friend of yours that made a pass at me yesterday?"

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**I'm sorry this is so late, I have a severe cold, I can't taste anything and I can't breathe through my nose and I feel like there's a lot of bees living in my head and my joints are just...yuck. Sorry if there are any mistakes in there. **_

_**I'm looking for a kind of beta for a new story I'm developing and which I probably won't post until it's finished...any takers? It's going to be quite different...**_

_**Oh, and if anyone could explain to me in plain language (preferably German ;)) how to knit a tea cosy, let me know, too. Thanks!**_

_**Yes, and you can congratulate me. The day before yesterday, I received my 100th letter of rejection from jobs I applied for. **_


	63. Tip of the Tongue Phenomenon

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_There is, for example, the tip-of-the-tongue phenomenon in which you feel that some word is just eluding you, that you know the word, but it just won't come to the surface. Studies of this phenomenon have shown that speakers generally have an accurate phonological outline of the word, can get the initial sound correct and mostly know the number of syllables in the word. This experience also mainly occurs with uncommon terms or names. It suggest that our 'word-storage' may be partially organised on the basis of some phonological information and that some words in that 'store' are more easily retrieved than others. _

(Yule, 1995)

.

"Does this have anything to do with that friend of yours that made a pass at me yesterday?" she asked, looking at him in a strange manner.

"What friend?" asked Severus immediately, spinning around to look at her more closely. No, she didn't seem too upset. Not as upset as he had imagined. Well – that was good though, wasn't it? If she took it this way, it could only mean that she hadn't taken this too serious either. Or that she thought he wasn't being serious. He frowned, waiting for an answer. The only person he could actually think of who would be bold enough to call himself his friend would be...

"He said his name was...erm, something with L. Roman, I think. Lucius?" she said, pulling a t-shirt over her head. "Are you finishing me because of him?"

Lucius. Lucius Malfoy. The idiot man. This was taking it all a step too far. Thinking he would now have to find a Muggle woman? And how had he found Annie in the first place? She wasn't his type – she wasn't blonde, she wasn't tall, she was slim but not thin, she wasn't in any way connected to anyone important – or anyone but him who'd know Lucius...had he followed him? Spied on him? This was the only explanation he could figure out – Lucius Malfoy, the idiot who was so consumed with the thought that he had to breed with someone sane, had spied on him. On him! And he hadn't even noticed.

"What did he say?" he asked, leaning over her.

"Not much. He said that he was your friend and that you went to school together and if I'd like to have dinner with him. Are you really breaking up with me?"

"Don't change the subject. Did you go out to dinner with him?"

"That wasn't the subject," she shrieked. "The subject was whether you wanted to break up with me because he chatted me up. Which, in retrospect, he didn't. He only asked me to dinner. And no, I didn't. For fuck's sake, you spent the last few nights here."

He shook his head. "You will not go out with him."

"If you're breaking up with me, I will," she threatened, pointing her finger at him in the process.

"No."

"What no?"

"No, you will not go out to dinner with him."

"I don't think you have any say in the matter if you break up with me," she shouted.

"Do you want me to not break up with you so you don't go out to dinner with him?" he snarled. "If so, forget it. But I know him and you don't and I know what he wants and you don't..."

"To get into my knickers? Well, sir, take a good long look at yourself because you wanted nothing else," she stood before him now, her finger pressing into his chest. "Don't you think I didn't know?"

"Didn't know what?" he hissed angrily.

"That you only wanted to...this," she yelled.

He said nothing to this. What could he say? Every word he would utter now would...no, it was no use. This thing between them – it had never really existed but now it was truly out of the window. He nodded sharply and pulled on the rest of his clothing, the damn, brown bathrobe lying forgotten on the bed and as he turned with a soft, "Good bye, Annie," he could feel something rushing through the air. Well, he could feel the air rushing by him, really, a cold draught next to his air and this gave him a warning – but it came too late. A split-second later, something hard hit the back of his head, fell down on the floor and broke into a million little pieces.

It stung and he thought that it was maybe even bleeding a little – but that there would definitely be a lump later – but only stared at the old vase she had thrown, then at her.

"Have fun cleaning this up," he said sarcastically and strode – as arrogantly as he could – from her bedroom and from her house.

Well...he thought, and couldn't think of much more. Not even in the fresh air. Not even when he could feel only a lump – and no blood. Well...was the extent of it until he reached his own home. Spinner's End. His house. The home he had made for himself. He had painted, he had built the furniture. He had done all of this with his own bare hands. He had done this. He didn't need a woman to do anything for him. He had proven, if not in the last, well, almost a year, then in the thirty-nine before that he could stand up for himself, that he could do very much without a woman.

Women had, so far, only brought him bad luck.

Think – Lily. Lily had been constantly on his mind from age nine to age...thirty-seven. She had always been there, day and night. She had guided his ways, the good ones and the bad. He had done everything for her – before, and after she was killed. Lily had been a guiding light and then – waking up in the heavily guarded, heavily secured section of St Mungo's, she hadn't been there anymore. There had been no light anymore, no Lily and it had apparently all fallen off of him – like...well, he had taken an Unbreakable Vow to protect her son, to finish what she had started. To die for him if necessary. He had fulfilled that – and she had been gone. Her presence hadn't been strong anymore, she wasn't on the forefront of his mind anymore. She hadn't been his first thought when he had woken and not his last when he went to bed. Had only been on his mind fleetingly. Once in a while.

But after waking up from the snakebite – it hadn't been 'Lily would have wanted you to do this, Lily would have wanted you to do that'. No. It had been...different. Not considering her constantly. Not thinking what she would think. She had gone. Like he had broken away her spirit after fulfilling the Vow.

He shook his head to himself as he entered his house. At least now he could think about Lily without the oppressing love he had once felt. At least now he could mention her name in his head without feeling a terrible sort of pain. He could think about her, too without any sort of major feeling. Regret – yes. A twinge of it. But no heart-aching, heart-stopping, gut-clenching regret.

He could think about her and he didn't feel compelled to ask for forgiveness for his mistakes. He had atoned for his sins. And she would...probably smile if she knew how he lived. Or she would think he was someone else impersonating him. Probably rather the latter. She probably wouldn't believe it. Not that she ever had a good opinion of him after _that_ day.

And now, it didn't matter much. Not anymore. He had been cut free from her – somehow. She was – history. A painful part of his own history but at the same time, so far away and – from another life. Back then, he had defined himself through so many things – his prowess as a wizard, his knowledge in the magic, his ability to brew, his being a Slytherin. All those parts of his former definition had gone out of the window. And it wasn't important anymore. He was no wizard anymore, he couldn't brew, he had pushed all his knowledge that didn't concern his daily life and his studies to the back of his head and he most certainly was no Slytherin anymore. He wasn't anything but Severus Snape.

And that wasn't bad at all.

He was now free again, had nowhere he had to be, nobody expected him to do certain things at certain times and he could do...the things he wanted.

Sit before his computer, could email whom he wanted, could see Eleanor whenever he wanted. And he felt absolutely no guilt now. He had warned Annie and if she went out with Lucius – and if she ended up being married to him, being his incubator, it was her own bad luck. Her own fault. He had done his job.

He let himself fall on the chair that his godson had given him for Christmas and wished he had thought to make a cup of tea before he had got comfortable in his chair with his laptop.

.

_Hermione,_

_thank you for your email. I must admit that I was surprised to read from you, actually. I mean I thought I had messed it all up the day when I basically ran away from you. I didn't quite mean it but it was all a bit much. I hope you understand that mentioning yet another way of wizarding stuff didn't go down well with me. _

_One of my profs asked what was wrong and I kind of told her that I had a weird thing happening to me during the summer and she said that if I couldn't talk to anyone about it, I should maybe go to a counsellor. Maybe I will, I haven't decided yet but gran thinks that I should definitely have to do something. I know she's worried and I know that Severus is worried. He doesn't let me out of his sight really. He brings me to uni and he picks me up and takes me home. As if I was a little girl. I don't mind much because..._

_Anyway, I'm glad you emailed me. Thanks. _

_Aideen xx_

Hermione whooped and cheered and Ted and Harry, who were playing together on the carpet, both looked up in surprise. Ted, looking not quite like Snape today, grinning at her.

"What's going on?" asked Harry, bouncing the boy on his stomach.

"Aideen wrote," she smirked.

"Deen!" Ted cried. "Deen!"

"Yes, Ted, Aideen wrote and I think she wants to sort of apologise."

"Really?" asked Harry.

"Yeah," she smiled still. "She said that she's sorry and that some prof asked her if she was alright and suggested a counsellor."

"Maybe not the worst idea," remarked Harry with a shrug.

"Well, the question is how do you explain to a Muggle that you had your arm broken by magic and that you were held by magical means and that you're traumatised because of magic?"

"And there are no Wizarding shrinks," he said pensively. "I don't know what to tell you. I think she should talk to someone..."

"Who?" asked Ron, suddenly coming into their library.

"Deen!" Teddy shouted.

"Aideen? That Muggle friend of yours?" he asked.

"Yep, " she nodded. "And she's considering counselling but we just figured it would be difficult, with her being a Muggle and with her being abducted by a witch."

Ronald Weasley shrugged but looked like he always did when he had a chessboard in front of him. When he tried to figure out how to solve a problem in the game. "If...I mean...you have to talk to her. I mean there is no other way, is there? You know her and even if she lashed out on you, that's a good sign, right? If she showed emotions towards you and told you to bugger off, there is something. When Ginny...after that thing with the Chamber, she didn't talk to anyone at first and only when she got really angry, we knew she was getting better. And because she was angry with Charlie first, she talked to him and it worked."

He shrugged and smiled lopsidedly. "It's the way it's handled with us. If she got angry with you, she will talk to you as well. Especially since she wrote you that eclecto-owl."

"Email, Ron," she corrected him absently, looking at Harry for confirmation.

"I think it's a good idea. And if you don't know how to do it, talk to Snape. He's probably not averse to helping you helping her. And the way I see it, as long as he answers your emails..."

"Hm," she hummed, checking her email for the billionth time that day for news from him.

Well, he probably wouldn't write anyway. And why should he? It was nothing in that email that he would have to reply to. She hadn't really asked a direct question and she hadn't asked his opinion and she still longed, oddly enough, to hear from him. It wasn't even anything personal – it was just typed words on a computer-screen but she knew, at the same time, that it was from him and that he had typed those words (if nobody had logged himself or herself onto his email account, which was unlikely) and he had wanted her to get something from him.

"And take Teddy with you," added Harry with a smirk. "He likes her."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, but I'll only go if she agrees, otherwise..."

"Of course you do. You can't go stumbling in. And while you're there, you can tell Snape that my dad said that they might have found the book with the original curse," Ron said – grinning from ear to ear, earning to gasps from Hermione and Harry.

.

He looked at some linguistics sites online (he had learned that it was called sites) and was almost falling asleep in front of his laptop, sitting cosily, comfortably in front of his unlit fireplace, just perusing, his books next to him on the arms of the chair.

He had to be careful now, of course, not to run into her at University – who knew what kind of scene she would be making or whether she would be, heaven forbid, running around with Lucius Malfoy after all. But he still had his sort of radar and he would have to keep his eyes open and then he would be fine.

He had showered, even after he had first fallen into his chair. The smell of that bathrobe – he had still sort of smelt it. And her. And that, he didn't want to smell. He had been an utter prick and he knew it. He had been what he vowed never to be – he had used her in the most terrible way. He had used her body only. And he hadn't even paid any kind of attention to what she had wanted. What a difference to what he would have done with and for Lily all those years ago.

Still, in the end, he had done it. He had done what he thought was right and he would try never to see her again – for her sake. And for his health. Didn't know what a woman was capable of doing when she was...like this.

A pinging sound pulled him from his thoughts – a pinging sound his computer had made and he looked down at the screen and groaned.

Had Granger felt the need to bother him with an email again? He groaned again when he clicked on the little icon and read.

_Snape,_

_Aideen wrote me and told me that I could come and see her. And Ron Weasley tells me to tell you that there might be the possibility that they have found the book with the original curse and that there is an small, tiny possibility that they can work on getting your magic back for you. I hope this is good news for you and I hope you don't mind if I tell you if there are any developments. _

_Best,_

_Granger. _

Severus felt that he had his hand clapped in front of his mouth – but...he didn't know what he felt. He didn't really want his magic back.

_**Thanks. **_

_**Still not any better, I'm afraid (and I went to work nevertheless but now I've got the next two weeks off, luckily) but thank you for your good wishes!**_

_**I think I forgot to reply to some of the reviews for the last chapter. I will get to them as well and I hope you don't mind.  
**_


	64. Grimm's Law

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_A number of scholars realised that there was a missing link between the Germanic and the Romance languages. This was not a mysteriously lost language, but took the form of a phonetic mutation or sound-shift which affected certain consonants in their evolution from Indo-European to Germanic. One such shift involved Indo-European p subsequently Romance p, becoming German f. As one can deduce from simple experiment, the sounds are not actually so different in character, both being made by the air being expelled through the lips (technically called bilabial) […] Once one recognises this sound shift, father and pater, fish and pisces turned out to be related, indeed the same word in different stages of phonetic development. [...]_

_Furthermore, the significance of the sound-shift was not a limited insight, but introduced the realisation that other, related consonants might also be invovled and affect a word's permutations over time. These are b and v, which are phonetically termed the voiced versions of p and f, since they are enunciated in the same basic fashion, but with the vibrations of the vocal chords also being employed. This wider family of related consonants links words which are by no means obviously cognate, as can be seen from the following list: _

Modern English: soap / seven / bishop / devil / brother

Middle English: sope / sevene /bishope / devile / brother

Old English: sape / seofon / biscop /deofol / brothor

German: seife / sieben / bischof / teufel / bruder

Swedish: tvål / sju / biskop / djävul / broder

French: savon / sept / èvêque / diable / frère

Latin: sapo / septem / episcopus / diabolus / frater

Greek: sapon / hepta / episkopos / diabolos / phrater

_Grimm's Law also affected the sounds represented by the letters g, k and h, which are phonetically termed velar, since they are enunciated by the use of the velum, a soft flap to the rear of the palate which, together with the tongue, can be used to stop or constrict passage of air. _

(Hughes, 2000)

.

He resorted, of course, to old tricks. He hadn't emailed Granger back, had pushed it far back in his head, all the while making a mental note to certainly do write her back and tell her that she could keep things to herself and that she should, most definitely, annoy someone else but him, but at the same time, he resorted to his old tricks.

Despite everything that had happened with – that Deveney woman – there were still people, he knew, whom he could turn to. A trust greater than he ever had in anyone, a greater trust than he had ever felt was there – and all he had to do was...he smiled to himself as he changed, as early as possible the next morning (no classes, thankfully), into the old trousers and the old jumper. The first things he had bought when he had moved back to Spinner's End. His first own Muggle clothing. Not the rubbish he had got from his father. The stuff he had bought at ASDA. His things. A bit tight, he thought as he put the jeans on, around the waist.

Severus snorted quietly. Eleanor's meals had fattened him up a bit. Mind, he wasn't round but at least didn't look like starving death anymore. No, as he looked at himself in the mirror, pulling the jumper over his head, he noticed that he wasn't pallid anymore. He was still pale, yes, but not sallow, not unhealthy looking.

And certainly still nothing worth looking at. He shook his head at his mirror image and touched the bump at the back of his head with gentle fingers The bump which was about three days old and which he could still feel clearly.. Whatever that woman had seen in him, and what had resulted, at the very end, in the bump, he didn't know. He certainly couldn't see it.

Old tricks, he reminded himself. He had missed...

He rushed down the stairs and gathered his instruments from the cellar before he, impatiently, pushed the backdoor open and set to work. He would just...well, the grass needed to be cut and he thought that maybe, he could dig up some holes and plant some bulbs. Tulips, maybe. Even if it was a bit early in the year but she would know. She would tell him.

He dug and he cut the grass and it wasn't even five minutes, when he heard another door being opened and he forced himself not to look up too quickly.

"Severus," he heard and only then looked up – into the smiling face of Eleanor, a knowing smile and then saw the two steaming cups of tea she carried.

.

Wringing hands and apparating at the same time was, Hermione found out, impossible. She had to actually stop wringing her hands and wiping them on her jeans. She should have taken Ted but Ron and Harry had taken him to the Burrow already when she had received the email. When Aideen had asked her to come over. She hadn't hesitated for a second, had only thrown a cardi over her shoulders and only when she had stood on the doorstep, ready to apparate, something like nervousness had settled in her stomach. And that's when she had wrung her hands and had tried to wipe the sweat that had gathered in her palms on her jeans. There was no need to be nervous. It was Aideen. She hadn't spent more time with a female about her own age ever. She had never had a friend like Aideen. And now she was – nervous – to see her. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, feeling like the sweat was gathering even more and closed her eyes tightly to focus on her apparition. She knew the place, she knew where to go and she was still rather afraid of splinching herself.

Couldn't possibly put her finger on why she was so nervous. She knew Aideen well. But Aideen had kicked her out. No, well, Aideen had left but the effect had been the same. Aideen had not wanted her to be there and only after those few emails they had written, she had agreed. But was she forgiven for constantly putting her foot in her mouth? Was Aideen alright with her being a witch and with talking to a witch again?

She knew she shouldn't be thinking about this while apparating and the moment she landed, rather ungracefully, she first checked that all her limbs were there and everything else that usually was on her body or belonged to it. No, everything there, she thought, down to the wringing, sweaty hands.

There was no need to be nervous. She had all her body-parts, she was more or less prepared to watch what she was saying in front of Aideen and she would not convince her to go back to Draco. Well. No. She wouldn't. But...no, she wouldn't.

Almost timidly, Hermione rang the doorbell to the house Aideen lived with with her grandmother. She hadn't moved to Manchester after all, hadn't moved in with her former flatmates but had stayed with her grandmother. Next to Snape.

Snape...she had mentioned him rather often lately. Snape. What if...what if Aideen and Snape...Aideen was only a year younger than herself, only about twenty years younger than Snape and Snape acted younger than his...forty. And he...well, he looked rather handsomely ragged. Not quite as trying to look raggedly handsome as Sirius had looked, back then, but he just pulled it off. Leatherjacket and jeans and...

She had to get those thoughts out of her mind before that door was opened. And she had to, somehow, find out if Aideen and Snap were...something. Or if either one fancied the other. But she wouldn't make the mistake of just barging in and bombarding her with questions. No, she would just let her talk. Simple. Keep her trap shut for once in her life. Under any circumstances.

"Hi Hermione," the door was opened carefully and Aideen smiled at her.

"Hi," she replied, wiping her hands on her jeans again.

"Come in, come in. The neighbours, even though there aren't many, talk much. I think the less neighbours we have, the more they talk, actually. The newest one is that Severus and I are...something. Ridiculous," she laughed softly and Hermione tried not to let her eyes widen. Let Aideen talk. Just let her talk. "I mean Severus is lovely but he's like a big brother. And not my type. Do you know that? That much gossip? Gran said that's been the major topic in church. That's why I don't go. Well, I don't go anyway but...apparently, and according to Gran, some people believe that we're ready to get married to give 'the little one' a steady home. I think I would've noticed if I were preggo, right? Idiotic, those people. I told Severus but he just scowled. You know the way scowls? It doesn't help that he brings me to Uni every day but I can't...on my own. Yet, I mean. I don't want him to...anyway, I am talking a lot, aren't I?"

Hermione smirked. "It's quite alright. It's usually me that talks that much. Makes a change for once."

"Oh good. It's just...stuck here with Gran and I can't, won't, go anywhere else because...and I feel safe and Severus next door. I mean, he would rescue me and he protects me and Gran. Not that I expect anything to happen to me here and I know that...come through. Gran said we could have tea either in the kitchen or outside. Which?"

"Oh, outside, I think," Hermione was overwhelmed by the words per minute Aideen could produce. She was even worse than herself. Ah, not quite but close. But at least now it was clear that...her and Severus – nothing. That was...surprisingly, quite a relief.

And if they had tea outside, well, their garden bordered on Snape's garden, there was just the possibility that...and if Aideen was so comfortable talking – even though nothing hadn't been touched during her rant that would help the problem, Hermione would listen.

.

"You haven't been out in the past few days," she said gently, sipping her tea and he sipped his.

"No," he said between two of those sips, looking at her.

"Not your friend anymore then?"

"No."

"Oh, well. Pity," she shrugged her shoulders. "Are you alright though?"

"Yes," he nodded, then shook his head. "No, but not about that."

Eleanor looked at him and knew that there was something big coming. Severus was one of those people who needed hours and hours of encouragement and bribing and luring before he offered some kind of information. Any kind of information. Before he told her anything. And now, he said – on his own – that he wasn't alright? She could feel the lines being dug into her skin, she could feel her frown growing and she knew the concern was showing on her face.

Whether he had wanted her to be concerned, whether he knew that she would be, as soon as he admitted to not being alright, or whether he was truly unwell, she didn't know and didn't care. He admitted to being unwell, and that was the main thing. No, he wasn't alright – and that was the main thing.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and could hear that her voice had changed slightly and that she spoke quicker than usual.

He shook his head but focused on her eyes, focused on her for a brief moment before he put his nose into the tea cup.

"What happened, Severus? Was it that woman? What did she do?" she stepped on the stepladder which still stood on the small wall that separated her and him and she pulled herself to the other side, standing before him and grasping both his upper arms tightly. "Severus. Tell me."

"What would happen," he said very slowly, "if I had the possibility to get my magic back?"

Eleanor cupped his face in her hands and forced him to look at her again. "As long as I don't lose you...everything's fine. But how...?"

.

Aideen looked strangely at her after her rant and when she made the tea but Hermione didn't want to ask. Foot in mouth – no more. She just accepted that Aideen looked at her strangely and then shrugged to herself. Maybe she had a spot of ink on her cheek. Happened occasionally, especially since she had begun to write with Muggle fountain pens again and those, surprisingly, stained her fingers more than quills had done. Well, she was patient. She would let her talk. Ron had said that repeatedly. Ron had said that it was best to let the other begin their talk and lead the conversation. He had smirked at her then and had added: 'If you know how to do that.' Well, she could have been offended, but she hadn't been. It was true – after all.

When Aideen had pushed the tea cup in her hands, there had been another strange look and another shrug and Hermione was close to asking what she had on her face, because Aideen seemed to see something in her face which didn't belong there at all. Probably an ink stain but she wanted to do this right. She wanted Aideen to talk and she didn't want to seem snappy and asked, with the annoyance she was beginning to feel, what was wrong with her. But no. She was trying to do this right. No more snapping, no more good advice, just listening. As difficult as it was.

She only rubbed her chin with her finger, knowing this was the most likely spot to have some ink and with that, and carrying her cup of tea, she was focused on not tripping.

"Miss Granger," she heard and looked up, the tea in her cup almost spilling over. Mrs Callaghan, standing on Snape's side of the garden, standing close in front of him, her back probably touching his chest.

"Hello," she said carefully. "Mrs Callaghan, Snape." It was rude. She knew it was rude but what title to use? Mister Snape sounded awful. Professor Snape was simply wrong. Snape would have to do, as it had done in the past and he had never seemed to mind.

"Is it true?" Mrs Callaghan asked.

"Is what true?" she asked, knowing that this wasn't good. Aideen. She had to focus on Aideen. Not on Mrs Callaghan and certainly not on the way that Snape looked like. In a jumper which was a bit on the tight side and showed the contours of his flat stomach and his chest. Not focusing on that.

"That there might be the possibility for him to get his magic back," she answered.

"Severus?" Aideen sounded terribly shy in that moment. It wasn't right. She could answer them but...she was there for her friend. Not for Snape. She would have to keep this as simple and as non-committal as she could.

"I don't know yet," she replied honestly. Well, she didn't. According to Ron, the book had found but was now somewhere deep in the guts of the Ministry.

"How much of a possibility is it?" Mrs Callaghan wouldn't stop. Why didn't she stop?

"I really don't know," she shook her head.

"Severus, do you...but..." Aideen stammered and Snape looked at her briefly, then at herself.

It was odd – he wore the same expression that Aideen had earlier. But she had rubbed on her chin even if she had left in a hurry and hadn't looked in the mirror, there couldn't be a stain now. Again, she bit her tongue otherwise she knew she would snap and demand what they stared at in her face. Then, his eyes, which she looked at, seemed to change and there was a twitch at the corner's of his mouth.

"I don't think we have to worry about me getting anything magical if Granger is in charge," he said suddenly and the twitch grew. It was almost as if he wanted to smirk but didn't allow himself to and that was it for Hermione. She couldn't bite her tongue anymore. Not even if she did it literally. There was something and he was extraordinarily entertained by whatever it was.

"What?" she snapped. "What is it?"

"Oh dear, Miss Granger, what happened to you?" Mrs Callaghan asked, concernedly.

"What?"

"I suppose I can count myself lucky that I have all my limbs and hair on my body," drawled Snape, an amused edge to his voice.

"What?" she asked again. "Aideen, what is it?" she turned to her.

"This isn't on purpose then? I was wondering what..." she giggled softly.

"Granger, did you apparate here?" asked Snape and she turned around very quickly, the tea in her cup actually spilling, to look at him.

"Of course I did, but..." she hadn't wanted to tell Aideen. Merlin knew how she would react to that.

"Are you familiar with the concept of Splinching?" he actually smirked now. It wasn't, by any means, the evil smirk she had seen thousands of times at school. It was an almost kind smirk. Like he was having a blast at her expense but that he wasn't actually making fun of her – if that made sense. In a way it did and in a way, it did not. No malice in the making fun of her.

Her mind reeled though. Had she splinched herself? But she had checked. Yes, she had been distracted and probably not quite determined enough but her arms were there. Five fingers on each hand and when she wriggled her toes, there were five as well. Two legs. A stomach, two breasts. It was all there. She wriggled her nose and bit her lips and that was there as well.

Face. Eyebrows. Ron had left half an eyebrow behind back when they had learned. She put the tea cup (which was only half full by now) on the small wall that separated her and Aideen from Snape and Mrs Callaghan and brought her hands up to her eyebrows. No, they were there.

"Lashes," said Snape with something that could be constructed as glee in his voice.

"Lashes?"

Aideen sniggered behind her. "I thought that you had pulled them out on purpose. Or maybe had trouble with a lighter when trying to smoke."

Hermione gasped. She had no lashes anymore. She had forgot her lashes. Well, they had just stayed behind. Her eyelashes. Was that even possible?

"They will grow back," the glee was gone from Snape's voice and was replaced by gruffness. "In case you won't find them anymore, which is usually unlikely."

.

It was a sight worth remembering. Granger without eyelashes. In all honesty it did look a little ill, as if she had a strange disease. But he had expected the way she had reacted to this – as if it was the worst thing in the world. Left behind eyelashes were the smallest matter. Back in the days when he had...spied...and when he had been too distracted to focus entirely on the apparation, or when he had been in so much pain that he hadn't been able to concentrate, eyelashes were simply left behind. They grew back. There was a potion which would speed it up – dabbed on the eyelids before going to sleep. It wasn't difficult at all to brew.

His mind remembered. His heart didn't want to but his mind had a mind of its own. And his mouth seemed to be connected to his mind – not to his heart.

"You make a solution from coffee beans and hops. A third coffee beans, two thirds hops with just enough water to cover all of it. And for heaven's sake use a copper cauldron. It should brew for about two hours, then you use the solution and put the same amount of murtlap essence in. You let that boil. And I do mean boil, not simmer, not stew, boil. You have to stir every five minutes twenty-seven times, clockwise. Stir five times. Twenty-five minutes. Understood?" He couldn't stop himself. It just poured out of him and Granger seemed rather surprised by that. He didn't even dare to look at Aideen or Eleanor – he didn't want to know what they know thought of him but...it had just come out of his mouth. He didn't know why, he didn't understand.

"Dab it on your eyelids and then close the eyes otherwise it will burn terribly. It's best to cover it with cotton wool pads or balls and keep those on." He had to stop now. This was him, helping Granger. Making it better for her and he didn't understand why and judging by the expression on her face, she didn't understand either.

.

_**Thank you! Reviews please (because this is an extra-long chapter and because you can see the romance if you squint and cock your head sideways ;))  
**_

_**I'm still a bit ill but before you say so, no, I haven't gone to the doctor's and I won't go. My cough is bearable and I can't stand doctors. Bloody quacks. **_

_**Thanks!**_


	65. The Transition of Language

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**. **_

_**This chapter is dedicated to myself because it's my birthday and has been for only about an hour. **_

_._

_There are very good reasons for supposing that language proper as it exists everywhere today, i.e., in the form of sentences composed of words, was preceded by a simpler stage in which there were neither distinct word-elements nor explicit predication. This simpler stage, where speech is confined to the utterance of unanalysed and uncompounded sentence-words, is passed through by the child and is also exemplified by certain forms of Indian signalling. We attempted to show in a schematic way under what general social and environmental conditions, and in the service of what social needs, the transition took place from the animal cry to this primitive form of human speech. In giving this genetic account we were regarding language from the social rather than from the individual standpoint. Yet we were forced to recognise that the evolution of speech from the cry must have been dependent on a much larger development, as a result of which man's simpler and more instinctive modes of behaviour as an arboreal animal were broken down under stress of new conditions, and replaced by more complex and varied behaviour. _

(De Laguna, 1927)

.

September, 21th, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: Thank you

_Snape, _

_thank you so much for the potions recipe. It worked and the morning after, I had all my lashes back! This is truly amazing, thank you for telling me. _

_Thank you again. _

_Hermione Granger. _

.

September 30th, 1999

From Hermione Granger

To: Draco Malfoy

Subject: Help?

_Draco, _

_I have no idea if you can or want to access your email but if that doesn't work, I will have to owl you. This is of some importance, really. I could get the book which includes the curse which was put on Snape. It wasn't easy, to be honest, but Percy Weasley can be easily distracted. One would think that he was more on his guard these days and that he wasn't in charge of that. Anyway, I really want to ask for your help. I hope we can work together to get your godfather his magic back. _

_Best,_

_Hermione_

.

September 30th, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Aideen Callaghan

Subject: I'm sorry

_Dear Aideen,_

_I hope everything's fine. I won't be able to come over next Saturday as planned because my prof heaped loads and loads of work on us and I need to get started on it. Could we meet the week after? I'm sure my workload will have lessened until then. Let me know if that works for you, please._

_Love,_

_Hermione._

.

October 1st, 1999

From: Aideen Callaghan

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: RE: I'm sorry

_Hermione,_

_It's fine, I'm terribly busy as well and Severus has taken to explaining me and Gran about potions which is very, very exciting but of course neither of us can brew any. He hasn't said yet if the potions work for Muggles, could you tell me? And if that works, is there a potion which makes the hair on my legs go away for good?_

_Love, Aideen_

.

October 2nd, 1999

Owl from Hermione Granger to Draco Malfoy

_Malfoy, _

_I emailed you but I suppose you can't check them anymore. I wonder if you'd like to help me undoing the curse on your godfather. I think there might possibly be a way._

_Hermione Granger_

.

October 2nd, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Aideen Callaghan

Subject: RE:RE: I'm sorry

_Dear Aideen,_

_yes, there is such a potion indeed and I think it might work on you but you'd do have to ask Snape again – he is the potions expert. I could make some for you and bring it over next time I'm there or send an owl, if you like._

_Love,_

_Hermione_

.

October 3rd, 1999

From Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: Are you absolutely out of your mind?

_Scratch that subject-line, I know you are. How can you tell Aideen about the hair-vanishing solution? We are already pushing the boundaries of the Statue of Secrecy and Aideen still has to speak in front of the Wizengamot, and you bring her more and more magical things. No potion, Granger. _

.

October 3rd, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: No, I'm completely in my mind

_Snape,_

_this potion is absolutely safe and you know it. She would only use it once and I doubt she would brag to her friends about it. Aideen is not like that, but you obviously don't trust her to keep your (and my) secret. It is just hair-vanishing cream. Not solution, just cream. Put it on, lose your hair forever. It's the dream of every Muggle woman. And I will give it to her. _

.

October 3rd, 1999

From Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: Are you absolutely out of your mind?

_You can't give it to her._

.

October 3rd, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: No, I'm completely in my mind

_Watch me, Snape. I'll be there on Saturday._

.

October 5th, 1999

Owl from Draco Malfoy to Hermione Granger.

_I will come to Grimmauld Place on Monday at twelve._

.

October 8th, 1999

From Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: Are you absolutely out of your mind?

_I can't believe you did this. This will make things dangerous for her. I hope you know that. _

.

October 8th, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: No, I'm completely in my mind

_Snape, _

_seriously? Her legs are hair-free now. It's not much, is it? And it will certainly not get her into danger. She will speak in front of the Wizengamot only about the thing about Andromeda Tonks. I bet those old bastards have other things to do than to think about Aideen's legs. Trust her, for heaven's sake._

.

October 8th, 1999

From Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: Are you absolutely out of your mind?

_Ever heard of Legilimency?_

.

October 8th, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: No, I'm completely in my mind

_Snape, _

_of course I have heard of Legilimency but hair-free cream? If anyone's in for anything, it's me, not you, not her. I gave it to her after all. End of story. _

.

October 8th, 1999

From Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: Are you absolutely out of your mind?

_Fine._

.

October 11th, 1999

Owl from Draco Malfoy to Severus Snape

_Uncle Severus,_

_I just wanted to check in to see if you're alright and happy. I am working on restoring the Malfoy name in the Wizarding World and Father is not truly helping the matter at all. Not at all. He has taken to seeing some random Muggle woman because he got it into his head that he needs another child because I might be insane. He hasn't told this woman, whom I never met, by the way, that he is a Wizard but woos her. The ink on the divorce paper of my parents isn't even dry yet. He is obsessed with that woman but I haven't seen her yet, so I don't know if she honestly feels something for him as well or if it's only one of his mad ideas. He hasn't even told me, it was the house elf. _

_Oh, and I have talked to Granger briefly when I was in London the other day and she was truly gushing about you. My, my Uncle Severus. I think someone has a crush on you. _

_Best,_

_your godson, Draco._

.

October 12th, 1999

Owl from Severus Snape to Draco Malfoy

_Draco,_

_your father is seeing a Muggle woman? Well, that is certainly an interesting development but I would just wait and see what is happening. I don't think your father and a Muggle would work and it is maybe just a phase that needs to run through. _

_Aideen sends her best. _

_Severus._

.

October 17th, 1999

Owl from Draco Malfoy to Hermione Granger

_Granger,_

_I think I might have found the missing link. You don't only need to insert words and movement into the counter-curse but also a certain type of chanting. This is an old curse, remember that and back in Merlin's day, they would chant, rather than speak and the language was probably more melodious in itself. However, one of the books I consulted says that it could have devastating effects on both the caster and the receiver of the counter-curse. I don't know how you can find out the correct chant though. _

_Malfoy_

.

October 21st, 1999

Owl from Hermione Granger to Draco Malfoy

_Draco,_

_well, I think I'd have to go to Hogwarts and check the library there but I think I might have an idea. I think Professor Vector mentioned something in Arithmancy. I'll go on Monday and see you on Tuesday then?_

_Hermione._

.

November 3rd, 1999

From: Hermione Granger

To: Severus Snape

Subject: What did he say?

_Snape, _

_what did Draco say to you about me?_

.

November 4th, 1999

From: Severus Snape

To: Hermione Granger

Subject: RE: What did he say

_He said you were gushing about me. _

.

_**Thank you!**_


	66. Force Dynamics

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_Force dynamics, furthermore, plays a structuring role across a range of language level. First, it has direct grammatical representation. In English, our main language of demonstration, such representation appears not only in subsets of conjunctions, prepositions, and other closed-class elements but, most significantly, also as the semantic category that most uniquely characterises the grammatical category of modals as a whole, both in their basic and in their epistemic usages. Force-dynamic patterns are also incorporated in open-class lexical items and can be seen to bring many of these together into systematic relationship. Lexical items involved in this way refer not only to physical force interactions but, by metaphoric extension, also to psychological and social interactions, conceived in terms of psychosocial 'pressures'. In addition, force-dynamic principles can be seen to operate in discourse, preeminently in directing patterns of argumentation, but also in guiding discourse expectations and their reversal. _

(Talmy, 2000)

.

It wasn't – usually – her character to shout obscenities at the top of her voice. But this fine evening, with the full moon out and the laptop fully charged, a new order on Amazon just sent away, she couldn't help it. Not even the thought of those books, those ten books that would arrive the next day or, at the latest, the day after that, could stop her from shouting the worst words known to man into the otherwise so silent and serene air.

She knew Ted was asleep two door away from her and she knew that Ron was in his room across the hall, and that Harry was either in his room, between her and Ted, or in the library, which was only a short walk away as well. Another two doors down, actually. She didn't care about any of that.

That stupid sneaky rat. That bloody bastard. That pureblooded son of a ...well, witch, obviously.

She hadn't _gushed_.

She had mentioned him, once or twice, but had definitely not _gushed_. Gushed. Pfh. Not her. She did not _gush_ in any case. Not about anyone or anything. Well, maybe about a new book she loved. Or about, well, any book. But not about people. She did not gush about people. She had never gushed about anyone. At all.

Hence, when she read that email, when she could see his smirk almost oozing from the few words he had written, she had to swear and curse and shout. And she decided, when she read that email again and again, that she would, most certainly, punch Draco. Break his aristocratic nose and wipe that smirk that he was, undoubtedly, wearing as well, off his face.

And Snape...how dare he write that? Well, she had brought it on herself when Draco hadn't been able to stop his insinuations. When he hadn't been able to stop smirking whenever they had talked about Snape. And what they did together was about Snape after all. It wasn't as if they were working in a vacuum or for a vacuum. They were doing this for Snape, they were figuring out a way to get Snape his magic back. Not for anyone, for Snape. They had to talk about him, naturally. If they didn't talk about him...well. They had to. And she didn't gush.

Alright, so, to herself, she could admit that...Hermione sighed. No, she couldn't admit to anything.

She shook her head to herself. He was Snape and she wasn't gushing and she hadn't been gushing. She was working towards the aim that he could do magic again. No other aim and she was probably the last person to have a gain from this. Well, Draco obviously had – getting his godfather back into his world again and being able to sneer with him about stupid Muggles and Muggleborns. Okay, so maybe Snape wouldn't do that. But Draco – he was...he accepted her, yes, because he knew she was a bright mind and that she could help his godfather but other than that – nothing. He wore robes all the time, he refused to even acknowledge anything Muggle she mentioned. And when she said Aideen or Eleanor, his face grew hard and his voice cold. If he said anything at all. Mostly he just tried to stare her down with his eyes grown icy and flinty.

She would most certainly mention them hourly now, if not more often. If he told Snape that she gushed about him – she would get her revenge that way.

"Hermione?" there was a knock on the door and she huffed.

"Come in," she groaned, blushing slightly – sure that her two and a half flatmates had heard her outburst.

"You okay?" a red head became visible between the door and its frame and looked around very carefully.

"Sorry, yeah. I just had..." she shrugged and sighed.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" asked he and opened the door a bit wider and stepped in. "You're still as tidy as ever. Everywhere but your desk," he chuckled.

"Well, you know me," she replied.

"So what's on your mind? What's got into you to have you swearing like a sailor?"

"Nothing," she laughed, a little strained, and rubbed her hand over her face, paying special attention to her tiring eyes.

Ron arched his eyebrows and sat himself down on her bed, playing idly with his fingers while he looked at her. "Hermione..." he said in that tone of voice that she remember so well from her time at school. And afterwards. It wasn't quite whiny, it wasn't quite complaining, it was only Ron wanting to get information. Only Ron trying to bribe it out of her.

"You know that I'm working on a project, right?"

He shook his head. "No, I dint."

"Well, I am. And I have to work with someone that I don't, well, I like him as a friend but he can be terribly annoying..."

"You're not working with me or Harry, are you?" he quipped, his eyes twinkling almost happily.

"No, but the principle is the same," she laughed out loud. "And he said something to someone we both know and both of them understood it wrong and it just was...it's just annoying, really."

She tried to wave it off, when, at the same time, she knew it wasn't just annoying. It was more. Even if she couldn't admit it to herself.

He seemed to understand that she didn't want to talk to him about the stuff that had her cursing that loudly and shrugged himself. "So..."

"So..." she suddenly wasn't sure what to talk to Ron about and smiled rather insecurely at him. She hadn't really been alone with him for a long time. Not until the day he had ended things with her, really. Strange that. They had been so close almost all their lives from age eleven and then, suddenly, it had all stopped. From one minute to the next, they had behaved like strangers.

Now, it was strange to see him sitting on her bed and talking to her and her alone. Without Harry present, or Harry and Teddy present. Or anyone else.

"Hermione...you don't me living here, do you?" he asked, the tips of his ears blushing a pretty pink.

"No, of course not," she shook her head viciously.

"Is there...I mean, you seemed a bit distracted lately and Harry and I wondered if there was maybe something, or someone, on your mind...?"

She shook her head again, smiling. "No, it's this project I'm working on and uni and you know what I'm like, Ronald."

"You're overworking yourself," he said with an air of finality. "We're going to the Burrow tomorrow and you will get on a broom and..."

"I hate brooms..."

"You will get on a broom and fly the worries away," he grinned.

"Ronald..."

"No, really," he grinned again. "It will clear your head. And your sinuses. And shut that tap-lop off."

"Laptop," she replied, pretending to be exasperated and watched him as he stood up from her bed and smiled at her cheekily. With a pang in her heart, she realised suddenly that she missed the interaction with her two best friends. She missed sitting down with Harry and Ron and talking to them, confiding in them, hearing their side of things, even if it was a bit stupid and not quite thought out. Even if they weren't in the least bit pragmatic, even if they were constantly seeming to rush into things.

"And you will tell me or Harry if there are any problems?" he asked, half out of her door again.

There it was – a warmth blossoming in her chest that she remembered from her first year at Hogwarts. A feeling she had first had when Harry and Ron had rushed to her side when she had hid in that lav and that troll was about to eat her. That moment when she had realised that someone had come to help her. To warn her. When she had realised that she had friends. It was the same feeling. The same one she experienced now and she couldn't help herself in that moment.

Hermione shot up from the chair she had sat on and darted towards Ron who was already on his way out of the door and pulled him back in the room, flinging her arms around his neck and hugged him almost violently.

"I will," she whispered in his ear, revelling in the fact that he could hug her just as tightly as she hugged him.

.

Severus smirked at his empty email inbox. That had – effectively – shut her up. Well, it would, wouldn't it? Nobody liked it if they...well. It was Draco's fault in the first place for mentioning it. And Draco was a Slytherin, he wouldn't have mentioned it if he hadn't thought this entire thing carried some significance.

He had thought and thought and thought since he had got that email about what this could possibly mean, what Draco wanted to say if that wasn't the truth but Granger writing him inquiring about it – it sort of proved to him that she had indeed – gushed – about him. What a strange word to use, really. Gush. He had looked it up – his new linguistic self had made him do it, really and he had got that from the bloody dictionary: if words or emotions gush from you, you unexpectedly express them very strongly.

Well. That had been a strange pill to swallow.

Granger gushing about him.

Why should she? He had pondered and pondered and pondered. He had contemplated. He had thought and he hadn't come to any conclusion. He had, mostly, thought that his godson had only written this to sort of disturb him in his peace and quiet but Granger had confirmed. More or less. And her not answering his email confirmed it even more.

But – if he knew Granger in any way, she would be on his doorstep first thing in the morning. She would stand there and her cheeks would have a healthy colour and her fists would be pushed into her sides so her waist would have little dents from her fingers. Not that she had a fat or so waist. Quite the contrary but she would push her fists that hard there...well.

He had had time, in between essays and meeting with professors who were clearly not Dr Deveney (and who were, mostly, still of the opinion that he should rather rush his studies and begin teaching first semesters), to think about the main question as well.

The main question was not whether Granger had truly gushed about him – but why his godson and her spent time together at all. The first answer he had was too simple to be true. And he never really suspected that they truly liked one another and that they hadn't become close friends.

After a day or two, he had another answer and that seemed more plausible, especially since he had – evidence. Granger had never once mentioned the book with the Dark Curse anymore. Granger had never once said anything about him getting – possibly – his magic back. And if she had somehow, got hold of the book and if she couldn't figure it out herself, the next best person to ask, the one with the most extensive library of potentially Dark books on hand was – his godson.

So...if Draco Malfoy and Granger worked together for him...

He had thought about that as well and he had talked to Eleanor about it and he knew, clear as day, that he wasn't sure whether he truly wanted it back. He knew that Eleanor wanted for him to be happy. And he knew that Eleanor would be happy if he just stayed, whether he was magical or not.

He himself...he missed brewing, he could admit that, and he knew that Eleanor was over eighty. He knew her back ached and he knew her feet ached and he knew that sometimes, she had trouble sleeping and that she couldn't see all that well anymore. She had days when she forgot things easily. It didn't happen often or regularly, but there were days when she stood in front of the fridge and forgot what she had wanted. Happened to everyone, he supposed but happened to her more often. And he knew he could stop at least a few of those ageing symptoms with the right potions. He could stop her from being in pain. And he could, probably, even prolong her life.

If he had his magic.

If he had his magic, the Ministry would probably be on his back again. Every time he would go to get potions ingredients, he would be stared at, would be under close scrutiny. If they let him keep it. If they didn't snap his wand again. If they allowed him a wand.

And that was the kind of hurt he never wanted to feel again.

Besides, he had done so much damage with his magic that he probably shouldn't be given it back. He had killed. He had tortured. He had taken lives. And only because he now only wanted to prolong lives – didn't mean he deserved it.

Severus shut down his computer, Granger wouldn't email back anyhow, and slowly walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He couldn't think about this anymore. He didn't want to even think about the possibility anymore.

.

It was early and she knew she would probably wake him but she had promised Ron to go to the Burrow, and to go flying, and so she had to do this. She had to make sure he knew that Draco had told him utter rot. It wasn't true that she had gushed about him. She had mentioned him, had maybe talked about him but gushed implied...

stronger feelings.

Feelings she...well. She (a) didn't have and (b) wouldn't admit to having even if she had them. It was simply. And it was only an apparition away and if she knew Mrs Callaghan well enough, she would even get breakfast once she was discovered to be there. It was all rather simple, she thought, as she tiptoed through the quiet house, down, out of the door and on the doorstep. Even the square in front of Grimmauld Place was still empty and she didn't feel in the least bit nervous or strange or something. Ah, a bit, maybe, but it was early and she had slept badly. She would just go and tell him that it had all been a mistake and that Draco had just made himself more important – once more – and pretended to know something which he didn't. He didn't know anything. They had worked together. Nothing more, nothing less, and they had...

Oh, she was repeating herself. Hermione closed her eyes and a moment later, with her eyelashes and her eyebrows and fully focused, she landed on Snape's doorstep and before she could change her mind – and because of the early hour (it was only seven, after all) – she knocked, banged, on his door.

.

He had just stepped out of the shower, his hair still wet and was only wearing jeans and a thin t-shirt he intended to wear underneath the thick, woollen jumper he had bought just the other day. It had got cold outside and the heating at university didn't seem to work all that well, when there was a knock on the door. An insistent knock.

He sighed. Probably Eleanor, telling him to wear an extra pair of socks or thermal underwear or whatnot.

Or – if his thinking was correct – it would be Granger, explaining to him that she had not gushed and that she didn't even know why she should gush and that Draco was a bastard when he spread lies about her. He smirked to himself. It would be fun to see her like this, and so he rather hurried down the stairs, and, after a quick peek, his smirk growing, he opened the door swiftly.

"Good morning, Snape," she said, very business-like. "May I come in?"

He still smirked but gladly stepped aside and closed the door behind her, watching how her fists were pushed into her waist and how they left little dents and how she turned around to look him in the eye.

"I did not gush," she said viciously and because she looked just like he had imagined, because she said just what he thought she would say, he burst out laughing.

.

_**Thank you for your good wishes! I'm sorry, I'm late, my new Wii is rather distracting ;) **_


	67. Conversational Style

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Many of the features which characterize the turn-taking system of conversation are invested with meaning by their users. Even within a broadly defined community of speakers, there is often sufficient variation to cause potential misunderstanding. For example, some individuals expect that participation in a conversation will be very active, that speaking rate will be relatively fast, with almost no pausing between turns, and with some overlap or even completion of the other' turn. This is one conversational style. It has been called a high involvement style. It differs substantially from another style in which speakers use a slower rate, expect longer pauses between turns, do not overlap, and avoid interruption or completion of the other's turn. This non-interrupting, non-imposing style has been called a high considerateness style. _

_When a speaker who typically uses the first style gets into a conversation with a speaker who normally uses the second style, the talk tends to become one-sided. The active participation style will tend to overwhelm the other style. Neither speaker will necessarily recognize that it is the conversational styles that are slightly different. Instead, the more rapid-fire speaker may think the slower-paced speaker doesn't have much to say, is shy, and perhaps boring or even stupid. In return, he or she is likely to be viewed as noisy, pushy, domineering, selfish, and even tiresome. Features of conversational style will often be interpreted as personality traits. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

Hermione stood very still for a moment, turned sideways to Snape. She could only see him from the corner of her eyes but she heard very, very clearly, since her ear was basically pointed at him.

Snape laughed.

Snape. Laughed.

It was...

It was a warm sound. It was deep and throaty and just...warm.

Snape laughed.

She had never heard him laugh before. Not once during her time at school, not once after that. She had never heard him like that.

It sounded so...human. He laughed. He just laughed.

And probably laughed at her. Oh, the tingling on her spine vanished as quickly as it had come when she had heard him laugh. He still laughed, for heaven's sake and she turned around quickly, faced him, even though one lock of her hair hid her right eye and tried to glare one-eyed. He stood there, and laughed.

Snape had little crinkles around his eyes. The always present deep frown-line between his eyebrows – gone. He laughed. His hair was wet, his t-shirt clung to his upper body and his jeans fit well and...he laughed. At her.

"What?" she snapped.

He laughed – and said nothing.

"Did I leave something else hilarious behind when I was apparating just now?" she grew slowly angry. She wasn't being laughed at. Not even if that laughter made her feel like...well. It wasn't making her feel like anything. Well, apart from angry. There had been no tingling in her spine and her knees hadn't, for a moment only, felt a little weak. She was just angry. At him. For laughing at her. How dare he?

And that man didn't even have a mirror in his hall, she couldn't even check if something as ridiculous as her eyelashes were missing, but she had been extraordinarily determined and focused while apparating.

And he laughed still – even if it was a little softer now and she had to stop that strange, disgusting tingling in her spine when his eyes roved over her, stayed for a moment too long, it seemed, on her legs and her breasts and when he shook his head.

"Well, why are you laughing then?" she hissed angrily.

And his laughter stopped but there was a grin on his face. A grin.

Snape grinned.

Snape looked extraordinarily like a little boy when he grinned. He looked almost like Ted when Ted was pretending to be Snape. Snape looked like Ted when he grinned. In a more adult kind of way. He grinned at her and that stopped all the tingling.

"Well? Why are you laughing at me?"

"Why did you come here again, Granger?"

She gulped down a lungful of air, held it inside, then released it with a hiss. "I came to tell you that Draco is telling lies."

"Is he?" the grin turned into a sneer. But not an evil sneer. If there was a such a thing, Snape sneered benevolently.

"Yes, he is," she stood her ground and tried not to stomp her foot. Ridiculous. She wasn't gushing about him.

"And you came to tell me that at, ah, seven in the morning, Granger?" Sneer. Benevolent. Malevolent. Malicious. Evil. He was still laughing at her, she noticed. He may be laughing at her on the inside, but he was, after all, still laughing at her. Making fun of her. Was he? He didn't really look like he was making fun of her now. He just seemed – in a good mood. He looked like Ted when he was given an ice-pop. Or his favourite toy.

Hermione squinted at him. It had been, well, not the best idea to rush there before having to go to the Burrow. How to explain that then? She decided, quickly, on another tactic.

"It's not seven, Snape," she countered a heartbeat too slowly.

Snape, seemingly ignoring her, pushed past her in the narrow hall, his arm accidentally brushing her breast and her shoulder and even though she could feel herself blushing, she turned around with him, following him as he was striding into the kitchen.

"No, you're right," he said suddenly, "it is now seven fourteen. My mistake, Granger," he held up his hand as if he wanted to stop her from interrupting and fixed her, his eyes having lost all the warmth she imagined having seen there while he had been laughing. "Will you kindly explain to me now why you invade my house at seven fourteen in the morning? And before you repeat yourself like a broken record, you did not gush about me. If that is the only reason why you disturb my morning, you can leave again now, it has been noted that you're off the opinion that you did not, have not, and probably will never gush about me. My, but that hurts," he said sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I honestly do not gush at all," she snapped. "Ever."

"Then the obvious question remains why you were talking about me at all, and why in such a way that my godson feels the need to explain to me, in all detail, that you did in fact gush," he sneered. Maliciously.

"I don't know why he said that," she said and felt herself, metaphorically speaking, backed into a corner. Her way, literally speaking, to the front door was clear. She could, she knew, just make a run for it, tell Draco that she didn't want to work with him, and for Snape, anymore and that this entire project, this puzzle was for someone else to figure out.

"Or why you meet Draco Malfoy at all? Hm? I never realised you were good friends who meet socially for, let's say, lunch once a week. Has that changed now? Nevermind, I don't care and it doesn't interest me. But what interests me is why you would talk about me, Granger."

She didn't know an answer to that. Well, not one that she could possibly tell him. She could, naturally, stand there and tell him that they were working on getting his magic back for him but they wanted to keep this a secret. They had agreed on that, both her and Draco – both unable to deal well with, well, anything that was not a success. And the fewer people knew, the fewer would see that they had failed. If they failed.

"Does it, by any chance, have anything to do with the curse that has been on me since last year? And a counter curse to this curse? Eh, Granger?" his face was the teacher-mask he had worn all through her school-year. It was neutral, it wasn't sneering, it was...his eyes were alive however. She could see they were and he had...figured them out. He had found out what they were doing. And he would probably throw her out any moment now. Any moment.

Hermione stood very still and didn't dare to meet his eyes for long. She looked at the floor, and felt that she was blushing profusely. How had he known? How had he found out? Draco...Draco must have said something. The little bastard...

"No, Granger, my godson didn't say a word but your reaction and the multiple emails you seem to think I want to receive from you gave you away. You are a Gryffindor, aren't you? Bit of subtlety would have helped. Don't stop abruptly to email me about the fact that there is a book which has the curse that's been lain on me in it. And don't let Draco Malfoy talk about you at all. Don't mention him yourself. And if presented with the truth, a truth you obviously do not want me to know, do not look at my lino floor and blush. Look me in the eyes but don't stare in them and just say no. Good Lord, Granger, you have the subtlety of a brick."

"I..." she had no idea how to answer that. She just didn't know what to say. She was so rarely at a loss for words but now...him, standing there...with his wet hair and the jeans and speaking to her like that, she just didn't know what to say. She just didn't know.

"You? Well?"

"I want to help you," she found herself saying, her spine straightening. "Draco and I want to help you. We want to give you your magic back. We have been working towards that and as such, I have to talk about you. And Draco talks about you but I don't say he gushes even though he mentions more than often, what a great godfather you are and have been and that he hasn't always appreciated what you did for him. I don't say he's gushing but he is, if I am."

She dared to look up at him, in his eyes and she noticed, just in her peripheral vision, how he pulled his lower lip between his teeth and seemed to chew on it for a moment while she waited for him to say something about that.

"Why should you help me, Granger? Are you not abiding by the law? Are you not respecting the Ministry's verdicts? Have you not cheered when they sentenced some of my former associates to a life in Azkaban? Have you not all screamed for my blood the moment it was clear that I had killed...did you not want to kill me? Did not everyone? Did not the majority of people shout in glee when they snapped my wand? And you want me to give me my magic back? To what purpose? For me to find myself being attacked the moment I enter the Wizarding World again? For me having my magic but being banned from buying a wand? A trace to put on me again? Being subjected to Veritaserum the moment something strange happens – some Muggle murder around here?" he stared intently at her, boring into her eyes, waiting for her to answer and to that, she had an answer.

"No. No to all of that. I think I have told you that the majority of people in the Wizarding World do think of you as a hero. Do you want me to spell it out? Hero. H-E-R-O. The Minister wants us to work towards that. He has people himself working on it but they're all incompetent bastards, erm, sorry, incompetent people. Draco and I believe to be close and..."

Snape sighed and shook his head. "I never expected you look at the consequences of your doing but Draco..."

"Draco," she said slowly, "needs you and wants you in his life. Especially now that everything's going upside down and his father is thinking about getting married and producing children with a Muggle," she paused. "And I am thinking of the consequences. But the consequences are not as dire as you make them out to be. You can still live here and you can most certainly can get a wand and neither the Minister nor the Ministry will give you any trouble. I doubt anyone will make you the victim of anything and even if you just get your magic back to spite them. Neither Draco nor me will say anything, of that I'm sure..." she shrugged. "But if you don't want it, we can stop working on it."

.

She had to stand there, so innocently, so guilelessly. And before, she had to stand there, artlessly, in his way so his upper arm had no other chance but to brush against some of her...female parts and her shoulder. At least it wasn't cold in his hall. Her blush, however, almost looked endearing and before he knew what was happening, she had pulled him, pushed him, into a conversation, had made him tell her things he hadn't even thought out loud to himself. If one could think out loud. But she had, with her blushing and her probing and the feeling on his upper arm and the way she looked at his floor and the way she stood there so artlessly, and the fact that she wanted to help him (help him!), drawn words, facts, thoughts out of him. Almost unthought thoughts. She had made him say it and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to be angry, or should be angry, or annoyed or if he shouldn't just – throw her out.

Granger, still standing there, but by now, defiantly looking in his eyes, almost a look of fierce determination on her unblushed face.

He didn't know how to answer her. He had been honest before with his utterly uncharacteristic outburst. He had never burst like that before – apart from when Eleanor had provoked him and provoked him and bribed him with tea and biscuits and cakes and shortbread and pies and buttery mashed potatoes.

Granger hadn't used any of those things. She had just stood there and had blushed and had told him the truth. How rare had it been, in his former life, to be told the truth. Students lied at him probably every time they had opened their mouths. His fellow teachers had lied, he had lied, until the very end when he had once told the truth and had said to...do it, the evil bastard had lied – only lied. All the time, only lies. He had only ever heard lies until...well, until the verdict and then until Eleanor Callaghan had met him with brutal frankness. With honesty right from the start. She didn't lie. And Granger, well, he should have known that she wouldn't lie. She had always been the perfect blend. An annoying, too perfect blend of all four houses at Hogwarts. Brave like a Gryffindor, cunning like a Slytherin, loyal like a Hufflepuff and smart like an over-developed Ravenclaw. If – and only if – the situation called for it. Of course the Gryffindor was always shining through, did shine through now, the way she stared at him and drew a deep breath to start talking again.

He watched her – he had watched her since she entered the house.

"We're almost finished but...if even Professor Vector doesn't know the answer to our last question, I suppose we can just save ourselves the trouble then."

Of course her Slytherin-cunning was mostly just...under-developed. She was too obvious most of the time but she knew how to make a man want to ask questions. Who knew how she was doing it. The right question, involving the right words at the right time.

Luckily, with Granger, it was mostly enough to just look at her and she continued.

"Well, I know you want to ask, so I'll spare you having to do it," she continued to rattle on, still staring at her and her voice having that screechy, bossy quality to it that he remembered well from both the Potion and the Defence against the Dark Arts classroom. "We figured out the wording which the counter-curse should have but it has to be chanted in order to be working correctly. And we don't know what chant, naturally. So I remembered that Professor Vector mentioned chants in Sixth Year and Draco remembered too and we went to ask her but she didn't know either. I mean, we didn't tell her what we were researching, only that we were researching and we weren't specifically telling her which counter-curse-chant we're looking for. So probably if we had made it more specific, she could have told us but she didn't seem like a super-expert, if you know what I mean..."

"Do you ever take a breath?" he asked, sneering at her and had to keep his grin inside when she took a deep breath and glared at him, her hair very tidy this morning in a bun at the back of her head apart from that small portion which fell almost over her eye and covered her right ear, which was, at that moment, being flipped past her shoulder

"Well, so yes. We can stop looking for answers to that chant-problem if you don't want it back," she shrugged again and whether he wanted to or not, it sent his mind working furiously. It circled around the question whether he wanted it back – or not.

Because, well, he simply hated wasted work. He had wasted work, hours upon hours, too often in his life. And as much as he didn't care about Granger, or Draco (who had too much time on his hands as it was, it seemed), he didn't want them to waste work, time, hours, energy. It wasn't necessary, if – and only if – he didn't want it back.

Magic.

Magic. Once he had used it to define himself. He had been weird at his primary school because of magic. His mother had been weird because of her magic, his father had considered himself normal because of his non-magic. He had been one of the others, because of his magic. He hadn't fit into Spinner's End, he had had no friends, because of his magic – until Lily came along, who also had magic. Magic had been him. He had waved his wand, things had happened – and if it was only red sparks shooting from the tip of it – he took a stirrer in hand and a few ingredients and – he had, in his hand, a weapon, or a cure. He had been a spy – because of his magic and he had been a Death Eater, only because of his magic. He had been a teacher for a magical subject. He had been Headmaster, because he had magic.

After that, he wasn't anyone. He was just...nothing. Or he had returned to his weirdness. Being Mrs Callaghan's strange neighbour. The poor bloke who had no idea how supermarkets worked these days. The odd mature student.

He liked going to University. He wasn't sure whether he liked being the odd one out – again. Not that it had ever been different. The black uniform he had made himself wear for most of his adult life, it had set him apart. The mark on his arm had done the rest.

Severus knew he wouldn't fit into any kind of society anymore – and he wasn't even sure which chances there were of ever being any kind of close to any kind of society. Whether it was simpler to try to be a Muggle or to become a Wizard again. He didn't know. He just didn't know but he did know that...

He liked a challenge. And if the book with the curse had gone through various hands at the Ministry, if it existed openly, if people had the chance to read it, he wouldn't remain the only person to be put under that curse. If there was a counter-curse which worked without doubt, the curse in itself would become harmless.

He wanted to close his eyes for a second, wanted to think alone for a moment, wanted to make a decision which reached further than the one he had already made, but she looked at him still. Would she understand if he said that he wanted them to find a counter-curse but not for himself?

He took a deep, silent breath and looked back at her. "Continue working on it," he said steadily. "You might want to check a book called 'Medieval Jinxes' by Helmand Dent. It has a chapter about chants," he said quietly, then pointed at the door. "I have things to do."

.

Hermione only picked at her food and she knew that Molly Weasley eyed her worriedly. She couldn't get that conversation out of her head. Did that mean that he wanted his magic back? Did it mean that he wanted them continue working and why had he looked at her like that when she had spoken to him? Was he...in any way interested in what she had to say? Did he respect her more now? Less?

Her mind was whirring and she had hoped – in vain – that it wouldn't be noticeable. When had all the people around her become so perceptive? Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Ron and Harry, all of them looked at her as if something was wrong. Even Ginny looked that way. Even George. All of them.

But oh she would just...ignore Snape for a while. Push him from her head and push the way he had looked like and looked at her out of her head. For the time being. She would. Wouldn't email him, would only wait.

He obviously knew something and if she judged his character correctly, it would be him email her first in any case. She had presented him with a challenge and he would meet it. He would want to help. Of course – he would want to help.

In the middle of pudding, a self-satisfied grin spread over her face and she didn't bother to hide it. Let the others there wonder what had got into her.

.

_**Thank you! Reviews? Please? Pretty please?(Because it's an extra-long chapter...)  
**_


	68. Conventional Implicature

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**. **_

_**Dedicated to Mafer Potter because she wrote a super-extra-long review. **_

_._

_In contrast to all the conversational implicatures discussed so far, conventional implicatures are not based on the cooperative principle or the maxims. They don't have to occur in conversation, and they don't depend on special contexts for their interpretations. Not unlike lexical presuppositions, conventional implicatures are associated with special words and result in additional conveyed meanings when those words are used. The English conjunction 'but' is one of those words. The interpretation of any utterance of the type _p _but_ q_ will be based on the conjunction_ p & q_ plus an implicature of 'contrast' between the information in _p_ and the information in _q_. In [1], the fact that 'Mary suggested black' (=_p_) is contrasted, via the conventional implicature of 'but', with my choosing white (=_q_)_

_[1] _

_a. Mary suggested black, but I chose white. _

_b. _p & q _(_p _is in contrast to _q_) _

(Yule, 1996)

.

As Hermione, unbeknownst to him, sat at the Burrow, trying to justify the grin on her face, Severus had folded himself into Eleanor's car, had filled the tank and was on his way to see his old – friend – Lucius.

He suspected, strongly, that the woman he was seeing was Deveney and as much as he never wanted to run into her again, she did not deserve to be a mere incubator for a Malfoy. Eleanor had, of course, looked at him suspiciously when he had asked for her car but grudgingly, had handed him the keys and without asking, had sent him on his way. But he would think about getting, maybe a car of his own.

Or maybe, that was one of the...advantages he would have if, and only if, he decided he wanted to have his magic back. Apparition was a marvellous thing after all. Focusing, picturing the destination before the inner eye and within the blink of an eye, one was where one wanted to be. Well, he had to grin to himself just as he was speeding down the M6, if one was determined enough and if one had the capacity to keep all one's body hair, and all of one's limbs. She had looked a little ill when she had lost her eyelashes. And she had looked just as shocked when she had thought that she had, once more, left something behind just because he had laughed.

Maybe he shouldn't have laughed at all but it had been...it just had to happen. He had wanted to laugh. It had felt surprisingly – good – to laugh. Hadn't laughed like that in years. Or maybe – ever. And she had witnessed that. If it hadn't been so – funny – to see her almost panicking that she had, once more, messed up her apparition. Not that he thought she was that incompetent, really, but she seemed to feel not competent enough when it came to apparating and with his single comment and with her probably being unfocused, she had made mistakes. Lots of mistakes. First, she had landed that he landed on her – then she had half landed on him, then she left her eyelashes behind and then she was afraid of leaving something else behind.

One needed to believe in one's own apparition in order to complete it successfully. One had to have faith in oneself – and why should she lack that?

He groaned to himself – he was thinking about her again and he didn't even know why.

.

"Hermione?" Mrs Weasley took hold of her arm and dragged her, not too gently, into the kitchen of the Burrow. "Help me with the dishes, will you?"

She nodded dumbly and swallow around the lump of dread that had gathered in her throat. The last time she had really talked to Mrs Weasley...the woman had shouted at her for having an affair, or a relationship, or whatnot, with Harry. And now that woman was about to corner her and probably ask her about that grin which had spread on her face. She couldn't help it, really, but she had realised that Snape would help and that she wouldn't have to fumble for an excuse to see him again.

Wait...see him again?

She groaned inwardly. It made absolutely no sense to lie to herself.

So, yes, she did want to see him again. And soon. But because he was interesting and because he could help with the counter-curse and not because he had kind of resembled a...human being. Well, a nice human being. Interesting and fasci...ah no. No. Bad. Focus on Mrs Weasley. Pull all her strength together to make sure the matriarch couldn't poke the wrong places. Stick her nose into things that were none of her business and on instinct, and probably partly, because she didn't truly trust Molly Weasley, she shoved Snape and Head-Severus and working on the counter-curse and all that had to do with either of those things, behind thick, impenetrable walls. And only then, did Hermione notice how many of her thoughts circled around Snape. How much she had truly thought about him since leaving him and that she did not truly compare the formerly existing Head-Severus with the real Snape. How she had noticed that Snape was a much more interesting and fascina... person than Head-Severus had been.

All pushed behind walls now as she smiled as sweetly as she could at Mrs Weasley.

"Are you quite alright, dear?" the older woman asked, and Hermione couldn't help but hear the honest concern lacing her voice. That was just typically Mrs Weasley – completely forgetting that Hermione had basically been persona non grata, and then suddenly, she was back in the bosom of the family and Mrs Weasley mollycoddled her (pun, yes, intended, she grimaced ever so slightly).

"Of course I am," she smiled a little brighter, hiding the grimace behind it. "I just have a lot of work to do for University."

"Muggle University, Ron and Harry said?"

She nodded eagerly.

"And what are you doing there?" asked Mrs Weasley, waving her wand about and watching Hermione while the dishes washed themselves.

"Maths, Mrs Weasley," she said hesitantly. "Didn't the boys tell you?"

"Yes, yes, they said something. But it can't be too difficult. I would have thought you'd do something worthwhile, maybe going for a spot at the Ministry? Or maybe a healer? You're not getting any younger and with Muggle-maths...it's just plus and minus and things, isn't it?"

Hermione almost – almost – couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had to remind herself that Mrs Weasley probably didn't mean any harm, she didn't want to hurt her but this was just...stupid waffle. It was stupid and it was uninformed and it just showed that wizards, in general (and probably not all wizards), had absolutely no regard for any kind of Muggle culture and for Muggle science and Hermione was determined to revolutionise the Wizarding World. With Muggle maths. She would ignore most of the Arithmancy she had learned – and she would use Mathematics only. Mathematics in potions, mathematics in transfiguration, mathematics in charms. She would use maths. And she would show those arrogant...well. For now, she had absolutely no idea how she was going to show it to them. But she would. Eventually. Soon. As soon as she could.

Spot at the Ministry? Healer? After everything the Ministry had done? After the stupid decisions the wizards in higher positions had made? After dosing all those people with Veritaserum and not finding Andromeda Tonks? Working for them?

Over. Her. Dead. Body.

"No," she said sharply. "I don't want to work for the Ministry or as a healer. And of course it's plus and minus and things. But those plusses and minusses and things rule the world."

"But..."

"And no, I'm not getting any younger, nobody is, by the way, but if you're insinuating what I think you're insinuating, then, with all due respect, I'm twenty. I'm not by any means old yet. And believe it or not, there are males at Uni. More than females, actually," she grinned. Snape must have – somehow – rubbed off on her. She would have never dared to talk to Mrs Weasley like that before – well, if angered, yes. But like this? Just because she did what she did best and tried to marry people off? Usually she would have probably just nodded. Mrs Weasley looked, well, dumbstruck and Hermione went in for the kill. She didn't owe this woman anything. She was grateful for the meal she had just got but she had thanked her. Twice. And there was absolutely not connection between them. She was only the ex-girlfriend of her son and a friend of her son. "And even if I wanted to get married now, I'd probably take a good look around Uni and not at the Ministry or St Mungo's."

She could see the wheels turning in Mrs Weasley's mind before she smiled sugary sweet. "I didn't mean that, Hermione. Of course you can find your own husband even if Charlie...but I'm just thinking that you're wasting your talent doing this Muggle-Maths. You have such great talents and I think you're wasting them. You could do so much good and you're going to a Muggle University when the Wizarding World needs young, bright heads like yours. Besides, you know very well that you will work there and not with Muggles and..."

"Who says so?" fumed Hermione. "Who says so? Seriously, Mrs Weasley. I don't know what right you have to say those things to me and how you can judge that."

"You're a witch," she said coldly.

"Yes, so? I'm a witch. As far as I know, Severus Snape was a wizard and a brilliant one at that and he manages very well living amongst Muggles."

"How do you know?" she asked suddenly and Hermione slapped herself internally. Harry and Ron had been sworn to secrecy and neither of those two knew how hard she worked with Draco. She hadn't told anyone. Had even lied to Professor Vector. And now she had...argh. Mentioned him.

"I know. I'm friends with his neighbour's granddaughter. Not that it matters. What..." she shook her head. "Thank you for the meal, Mrs Weasley. Tell Harry and Ron that I went home," she continued before she turned around, ignoring that the older woman shouted something after her and apparated as soon as it was possible.

.

He hadn't said that he would come but as he drove through a what was probably a new layer of wards – and wasn't stopped (not even the car was affected in any way), he could see a blonde head standing at the front steps, his arms by his side and his back ramrod straight. They had drilled the boy. They hadn't let him have a childhood.

Eleanor had been the first person to hug him. Eleanor had given him the love that he needed and Aideen had given him the love that he wanted. But that was another Draco – different from the one that stood there. The sixth-year-Draco seemed to be back and Severus could judge that by his posture alone. Worries too heavy for such young shoulders to carry were trying to press him down and he fought against them with all the strength and determination he could find in himself. He should be hugged by Eleanor and kissed by Aideen and not act as head of the family when his father was out gallivanting with some Muggle woman – possibly Deveney. His cast-off. Well. Draco should...

That wasn't what he had come for but he would possibly drag the boy away. He would drag him back to Manchester and back to Eleanor and back into Eleanor's house and he didn't care one whit whether Aideen didn't like it. Or if she did, he would have to sleep on his couch. But he needed to get away from this place and the madness it entailed.

Somehow, somewhere deep inside, he felt in that moment an inexplicable rush of affection towards his godson. The poor boy. He needed love otherwise he would end up like...just like him. He was still young enough to be loved and to be moulded by those who loved and if he missed that now...

Simple. He would order him to come with him. And if that didn't work, he would drag him out by his collar and lock him in the car until they were back home.

That posture...it wasn't healthy. It wasn't what a young man should look like. What he had looked like himself. At Draco's age...he had...no. That boy would have a better life than him. End of story.

He unfastened his seatbelt and unfolded himself from the minute car. It was either apparition or a bigger car. He would have cramp in his back by the time he returned back home. Most certainly.

"Uncle Severus, we weren't expecting you," said Draco, coming towards him with a slight bow of his head. Ever the pureblood. He would get that out of him. Drag him away.

"It would have been most worrisome if you did, Draco, since I didn't know that I would come until about two hours ago myself," he said just as politely. "I need to talk to your father briefly and then I'd like a word with you if you're agreeable?"

"Yes," said Draco stiffly, "I will be upstairs in my room, Father is in the library."

As he followed the boy, he was astounded by how different he looked. Draco was pale beyond comparison, had dark circles around his eyes and he walked so straight that Severus was afraid he'd break something. He only received a short nod from his godson before the boy trod up the stairs and Severus paused quickly before he knocked on the door to the library.

The boy was deeply unhappy. Working too much and not having a loving home to return to. He had to change that. Felt compelled to change that – didn't know why – but he would carry him out if he had to. After he talked to Lucius.

.

_**Thank you!**_


	69. Truth Conditional Semantics

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_To know the meaning of a sentence is to know its truth-conditions. If I say to you:_

_(1) There is a bag of potatoes in my pantry_

_you may not know whether was I said is true. What you do know, however, is what the world would have to like for it to be true. There has to be a bag of potatoes in my pantry. The truth of (1) can come about in ever so many ways. The bag may be paper of plastic, big or small. It may be sitting on the floor or hiding behind a basket of onions on the shelf. The potatoes may come from Idaho or Northern Maine. There may even be more than a single bag. Change the situation as you please. As long as there is a bag of potatoes in my pantry, sentence (1) is true. _

(Heim, Kratzer, 1998)

.

He felt like he was seated or directed to his seat by a gesturing Lucius who wore the stupidest grin on his face. Severus had never, not once in his life, not once since he had known Lucius, and that had been...a long time.

"Severus," he said when he had put himself into a slightly worn, threadbare armchair.

"Lucius," he replied because, well, there was nothing else to say.

"What brings you here today?"

Severus knew that this was not going to be a pleasant conversation. This was not going to be chit chat amongst old friends. For one, he wasn't sure whether Lucius was his friend – and never had been sure of that particular fact – and he knew that Lucius knew that he hadn't just driven through half of England for pleasant chit chat.

"I must admit," he began slowly and decided that, if he used a rather direct approach, something worthy of a Gryffindor rather than a Slytherin, Lucius might expect something else coming and might, just might, answer him honestly, "that I find myself curious about your project with, shall we say, extending your family?"

"Draco told you that I'm seeing a Muggle then?" the man asked, his grin morphing into a smirk. "Indeed I am."

"A date set, yet?" asked Severus sarcastically.

"Not quite yet, no," Malfoy smirked still. "But once I do, I will have killed two crups with one stone, dear Severus."

"Oh?"

"Quite right, quite right. Not only will there be fresh blood in the family but the vault at Gringott's will be, let's say, find itself extended again as well."

.

Hermione kicked her wardrobe. She kicked it hard. She stubbed her toe but she didn't care because...how in the name of everything that was good, bad, ugly, holy and all the other adjectives that she could think of, could that woman presume, could that woman dare to say such things about her life? She was happy in her life. More or less. More than less, actually. And Molly Weasley, with her holier than thou – no, that wasn't right, with her better than Muggle, suitable bachelor as a son attitude had just...tried to violate what plans she had made for her life.

Not that there were many plans but who cared? She had at least two more years of Uni to go, she felt absolutely no rush to marry just about anyone, much less a Weasley, and if she went to work somewhere afterwards, it was most certainly not for the Ministry and most certainly not for St Mungo's or any other Wizarding institution. She would most certainly not slave away for people who didn't understand, nor appreciate what she did. Definitely, a hundred percent, not. The Wizarding World always forgot so quickly – and she didn't want to do good and do good and do good all her life only to have to end up like Snape because she made one mistake. Most certainly not.

She wasn't sure about a Muggle court and she wasn't sure about the laws in a Muggle court but Snape with what he had done and what he had to do in his line of duty, in his profession as a spy, he wouldn't have been sent out to a completely new country, a new life. What had happened to him was almost like sending him to a colony.

No, she was not going to work for such idiots. Rather stay in the Muggle world.

Hermione was angry and for good measure, kicked against the wardrobe once more.

"Hermione?" she heard from downstairs and groaned upon noticing Harry's voice. If Mrs Weasley had told everyone that she had just taken off, well, that was no if, that was a most certainly, he would have come home straight and ask her. Good Harry. Never exactly knowing which side to take, hers or the Weasleys. Apart from that one time when both of them had just broken up with one of them and...water under the bridge.

"I'm up here," she shouted back, and wanted to kick the wardrobe just in the moment that Kreacher popped, quite unannounced, into her room. She hit nearly missed the wardrobe and hit it only with the side of her foot, and she let out a yelp of pain.

"Mistress Not-Of-Pure-Blood is destroying good Black furniture. Mistress will not like that. Mistress will not like that at all."

"Ouch," was all Hermione could say to that, sinking to the floor and holding her right, hurt foot to herself, cradling the leg as if it were a baby.

"Mistress Not-Of-Pure-Blood should not have destroyed good Black furniture. Hurting foot is penalty," the elf grumbled.

"I didn't destroy it, damnit."

"Hermione?" Harry pushed the door open, little Ted sitting on his arm and playing with his godfather's ear.

"What?" she snapped, looking up angrily.

"Erm, Kreacher, would you please bring us some...erm, tea...no, make that Irish coffee. I think Hermione needs it. And a bit of milk for Ted?"

"Certainly, Master Harry Half-Potter. Kreacher will go," the elf bowed and popped away.

"And?" asked Harry, setting the toddler on the floor who crawled – immediately – to her.

"What, and? Mrs Weasley always, always, always has to give advice, doesn't she? She always has to hand in her two pennies. She always has to. Whether you ask her for it or not, she has to tell you what is best for you. And I haven't spend a lot of time in that house lately. Nothing except that one time when she wanted to set me up with Charlie before. Then she tells me that I should help her with the bloody housework which, by the way, she can do perfectly well on her own because she's a witch and doesn't even need half a minute, and tells me that I should stop studying maths because it's only just minus and plus and stuff. That's a direct quote, by the way. And she probably expected me to stay and say 'Yes, ma'am, whatever you say, Mrs Weasley. Your wish, my command.'" She ran out of steam and watched for a moment how Ted, in his little baby-way, tried to imitate her and managed to flop on his back while cradling his leg.

"No, Harry. For a very long time, I wasn't even in contact with him and now it's only sporadic and she thinks she knows what's best for me? Because I am getting on and I should find a husband before it's too late."

Harry had listened silently and the moment Kreacher arrived with the milk and the Irish coffee (sometimes Harry did have good ideas), he took it from the ancient elf and sat down on the floor with her and Ted and looked at her intently.

"And if you say, Harry Potter, that she only means well, you might as well say nothing. I bloody know that she means well but it's still none of her bloody business."

"Maybe," he said slowly, "you should keep the swearing to a minimum when Teddy's with you?"

"Is that all you can say?" she asked shrilly.

"No, but I'd have said that Molly Weasley means well and that you shouldn't take her seriously because what kind of power does she have over you? It doesn't look like she's going to be your mother-in-law, so just accept what she said and move on. Not running away though, Mrs Weasley takes badly to being ran away from and I had to listen to her tirade on and on."

"Was she saying that I was ungrateful?" she snapped, slurping the hot beverage and feeling the slight buzz on her tongue, calming her somewhat. But only somewhat.

"Amongst other things," he sighed and held out the sippy cup for Ted who crawled towards him and settled comfortably against Harry's chest with a broad grin on his face.

"He's happy."

"Yes, he is," smiled Harry. "And you're not changing the topic."

"I wasn't going to. I'm just saying how happy he is with you here. I mean..."

"Of course my little Teddy is happy, aren't you, little one?" he looked at the boy leaning against him sipping with his help and gurgling a bit of nonsense.

"It was the best decision you made taking him in."

"Of course it was. Orphanage? Some weird relatives? I'm his godfather. And it's my...you are changing the topic."

.

"Viscountess what?"

"Brackley. Viscountess Brackley. She's twenty-five and in the best years for breeding," he said with the same grin he had worn before. This was insane. It wasn't Deveney at all. Lucius had set his sights on some orphaned Viscountess who lived in the neighbourhood – or had the neighbouring estate or something like that. A Viscountess. Of course Lucius would not go for a mere professor when he could have nobility. Severus knew that he could barely keep his mouth from dropping open and from him looking rather unintelligent at that moment but Lucius had, what he called, an understanding with that Viscountess. Brackley. Gwendolyn, as he had been informed. Gwendolyn who was, with her twenty-five obviously the best age for breeding.

Severus couldn't contain himself. "Are you insane?" he asked, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible.

"No, dear Severus, I am not insane. I am doing what I can to ensure the continued existence of my family. And with Draco going mad, I cannot..."

"Draco going mad?" he interrupted as smoothly as possible.

"Ah, he's always moping around here and not talking much and keeping to his room and not at all interested in meeting the Viscountess's cousin and..."

"I would like to speak to him," he said quickly. This was too insane for words. He had stepped into an alternate universe. A universe in which Lucius Malfoy, defender of the faith of Purebloodism found himself a Muggle girlfriend (or a woman with whom he had 'an understanding'), planned on marrying her for the sake of her money and her ability to breed strong, healthy heirs (and who probably looked like a horse as well – or maybe that was just his prole paternal upbringing with a healthy dislike of everything with a title), was going hunting with them and who had dropped the Muggle-repelling charms for the first time in about seven centuries for her. Who had met his future wife while golfing. Lucius Malfoy, former defender of the faith of Purebloodism had golf clubs in his library. It was too surreal to be true.

"Of course, of course. We will invite you to the wedding, naturally," Malfoy said and Severus stood up, forcing himself to not shake his head and headed out of the door.

.

"My mum said," said Ron, sitting on the floor with them, "that she'd rather not have you around for a while."

Hermione groaned, rocking Ted who had, by now, crawled to her. Quite possibly because she felt rather warm and fuzzy after the second, or fourth cup of Irish coffee and because the rocking helped her as well to keep the world in balance.

"I will miss her terribly," she heard herself say sarcastically. ""Kreacher, I want another one, please. I mean, seriously, who does she think she is. Does she give you the same kind of advice? I mean really."

"Is she slurring?" asked Ron and Hermione glared at him instantly.

"I am most certainly not slurring," she said as carefully and in her best posh voice. Her Sunday voice. She giggled. Sunday voice. "I am perfectly fine and my speech is very pronounced. I think. But she has now the audcity, audacity, to tell me what I should do with my life."

"Welcome to my world," said Ron, darkly. "How many?"

"She's on her sixth now."

"I am not. And Kreacher doesn't put enough fuel in them anyway. I feel perfectly fine and Ted feels perfectly fine. Don't we, Ted? Yeah, rocking is good. Oh. No no, love, don't drink my coffee, coffee is not good for babies," she laughed and held onto her cup. Or maybe her cup was holding onto her or maybe the cup was really like an anchor to the world or she was the anchor for the cup or...she wasn't sure which anymore but she could plainly see Ron and Harry talking. "Oi, boys, no talking about me or Ted behind our backs."

"We're not talking about you," said Harry. "It was my idea," he said to Ron.

"What was?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing, Hermione. You can nap with Ted. He seems quite tired as well."

"I don't want to nap. I have coffee. You have coffee because you don't wanna nap. Don't you know the simplest things?"

"I do," Ron giggled. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone being drunk on Irish coffee before..."

"She didn't eat much during lunch."

"Why do you say she when you mean me? Oh, that rhymes. Listen Ted, that rhymes. She and me," she giggled again and didn't even know where all the giggles came from but Ted seemed to not like them and began to cry in her lap. "Don't cry," she said, panic edging its was upwards in her brain. Or rather it was fighting its way through her foggy brain with a machete. But why was her brain foggy at all? She only had coffee with a little teeny bit of Irish in it.

"Come here, Teddy," Harry cooed and the boy readily crawled away from her.

"Oh, look, he's leaving me as well," she mumbled, lying down flat on her back now. Flat on her back was good. The soles of her feet pressed firmly against the floor and the world would stop spinning for a moment before it accelerated again.

"Nobody is leaving you, Hermione," Ron said from somewhere far far away and she suddenly lay next to her, their hands touching. Oh, that was better. He made the spinning stop.

"He did. You did, Harry will once he figures out whether he wants a boy or a girl, Aideen only talks to me because she's afraid of other people, Draco only talks to me because we work on that counter-curse and Snape hates me. No, he probably doesn't hate me anymore but he should because I went behind his back and if he doesn't want his magic back, he will hate me because I have magic and then it will never work out because if I have magic and he doesn't and he sees me doing magic and apparating and all that, he will be jealous and I want him to have his magic back because I want to be equal with him and if I have it but he doesn't, he will leave me too but he won't leave me because he doesn't like me in the first place so it makes no sense that I work on that counter-curse because if he doesn't want it back and...I lost my train of thought," her eyes felt very heavy and she knew she had just said something which she shouldn't have said but she had and it was bad and she should feel unwell about it but her eyelids were too heavy and the floor was very comfortable and if she held Ron's arm and had her feet pressed tightly to the floor, she wasn't on a rollercoaster in her head and it was good to keep the eyes closed...

.

"Draco, we should talk," he said sternly, a plan forming in his head.

"Yes, sit down, please," he said pleasantly but oh so stiffly. And he stood in his own room. Severus had found him looking out the window. No normal twenty year old would stand on a window like this and look out. Nobody. Action – yes, he would take action but his godson had retreated so far behind his own walls, behind the fortress inside himself to protect him that he not talk would work. He knew this. He knew this from experience.

"Why don't we walk for a bit," he suggested, remembering that little button in the car that Granger had explained to him. The little button that locked all doors expect the driver's side of a car. He would have to thank Granger for telling him that. No, he didn't have to and he wouldn't – just a figure of speech anyway but he felt a small smirk of triumph creeping on his face as he remembered that button that Granger, with her finger had pointed out and which she had pressed with the tip of it and...he was doing it again. There was no need to think about Granger at all. None at all.

"If you like," said Draco very politely and Severus knew that he truly did not want to leave the room, much less the house but politeness, his upbringing dictated listening to guests's suggestions. And this was one. He had to follow the rules. Self-imposed rules these days. No matter. Draco would get away from this place and, well, he hated springing this on Aideen but he would maybe be able to text her. Or quickly call Eleanor on the way, even though that would probably be a problem. He would find a way, otherwise he would keep Draco at his house until he had prepared Aideen. Who was still longing for him, he hoped.

"Shall we then?" he tried to smile benignly at his godson but he didn't even look but kept his eyes straight forward and in silence, the two men descended the stairs and left the Mansion, soft clicks (probably from trying to put...golf...Lucius Malfoy and golf) coming from the library.

"You're father's taken up golf?"

"Stupid Mudblood game. Balls in holes. Whoever needs that?" the young man grumbled.

"Hm."

"Completely changed his tune. And I'm the mad one, he says."

Severus nodded wisely and suddenly gestured to the car. "I have my jacket inside, do you mind if we get it first," he asked, happy, astonishingly happy that he had left it in there and that it had cooled a bit.

"Of course not," said his godson and Severus smirked, once more, in triumph. He had left the car unlocked, nobody would steal it in the middle of the country and he had figured there were still Anti-Muggle wards (which there weren't) and so there had been no need but now, Draco stood much closer to the door and the jacket was on the passenger side.

"Oh, would you get it for me, please," he asked pleasantly, standing ever so slightly behind Draco.

The young man groaned almost silently but obediently, opened the passenger side door and with one swift motion and an even quicker shove, Draco was inside the car and the door closed and probably before his godson knew what was happening, he was locked into the car and Severus drove away from Malfoy Mansion.

.

_**Thank you!**_


	70. Regularity

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_People tend to behave in fairly regular ways when it comes to using language. Some of that regularity derives from the fact that people are members of social groups and follow general patterns of behaviour within the group. Within a familiar social group, we normally find it easy to be polite and say appropriate things. In a new, unfamiliar social setting, we are often unsure about what to say and worry that we might say the wrong thing. _

(Yule, 1997)

.

Ron sat up slowly, his hand being held hostage by Hermione's vice-like grip. Even as she snored – more or less adorably – she held his rather rather tightly. Sending a glance at his friend Harry, he used his other hand to pry her fingers from his. It was a pity and a shame that both of them were not truly made for another, that their brief, tumultuous relationship had to be ended and that it had to be him who had seen it first. Seen first that Hermione was not the right woman for him. That in due time, and he had ended it before that could happen, he would resent her for being so smart and for not truly believing he could be smart as well. It was a shame and a pity because he loved her – like he loved Harry. She was his friend, one of his two best friends, and he was glad that she had accepted him back into her life again, that he was, once more, part of a trio, and that she accepted him as someone who would stand by her side and that he was, for her, now again, someone to hold on to. Even if his hand would probably bruise.

Harry had picked up Teddy and was inching his way out of the room as he could finally free his hand and as he watched his friend and his godson leave the room and threw a last glance at Hermione, he shrugged to himself, raised his wand and levitated her on her bed, nodding satisfied to himself and shut her door with a soft click.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, once he and Harry had sat themselves down in the kitchen, Teddy playing at their feet.

"What counter-curse? What did she mean? Did you know she was working on something? I thought she only went to university and had a lot of work there but what does Malfoy have to do with anything? And Snape? Does she fancy Snape?" asked Harry rushed. "What was it she said."

"People leaving her and Snape not wanting her and if he wanted her, leaving her if he doesn't get his magic. What was that about? I know she wanted the book and...do you think she's working with Malfoy on a counter-curse for Snape?"

"Sounded like it, didn't it?" Harry shook his head. "But why wouldn't she say? Did Percy say that she actually got the book?"

"Haven't seen him," Ron mused, scratching his chin. "I think it's possible. Or that she at least made a copy of the part that was important. But why should she...ah, Draco is Snape's godson, isn't he? And if she fancies Snape...but she can't really. I mean it's Snape. He could be her father."

"Hm," shrugged Harry, "And Snape loved my mother."

"There is that but..."

"He could have stopped in the meantime. Do you think there is something? I mean between them?" Harry made a face as if he had bitten into a super-sour lemon.

"Nooooo," he shook his head, mimicking the same facial expression. "I mean they're both bookworms and everything but that'd be just weird. He was her teacher."

"Yeah, but what other counter-curse should she work on with Malfoy? And if it's that one, why should she do it?"

"To please her teachers, as ever," chuckled Ron. "She's Hermione. She could never get a word of praise out of Snape and it buggers her still probably. So if she figures this one out, he gets his life back and he'll be in her debt."

Harry nodded slowly. "That or it's something else altogether. Think we should ask her?"

"And make her remember what she told us while being utterly pissed? No, mate. If she remembers, she will be completely embarrassed and if she doesn't, I don't want to be the one to remind her," he shook her head. "Ginny had that phase after you two...anyway, whenever she could, she stayed with me and George and she drank and I mean...you don't want to remind girls of what they did and said when they were pissed."

He could see that Harry was aching to ask what Ginny had said in those moments but he had learned his lesson well. And Ginny would most definitely have his head if she knew that he had even mentioned that she talked about Harry while drunk. She would have more than her head if she knew that he had told Harry that she was still mourning their relationship and that she still loved him but believed that he would never come back to her because he was maybe liking boys more. Not that she had ever mentioned that while being sober or close to sober but drunk girls were like an open book. And he would most definitely bring up the one thing that Hermione had said as well and which he didn't want to touch. Harry liking boys. That wasn't something he would be able to get used to quickly. Harry liking blokes? That could mean that Harry liked him for more than just a friend and that thought alone was scary. If Harry liked girls, everything was normal, everything was fine. Liking blokes was...well, weird.

"So if she wants to talk about it," said Harry, dragging him out of his thoughts, "we talk to her but if she keeps silent we say nothing?"

"We observe and we watched. I think that's what she'd do in a situation like that," he grinned. "And she gets that pissed from a few Irish coffees?"

Harry chuckled. "Yeah. I didn't think it would be that bad but it was rather cute seeing her losing it like that, wasn't it?"

.

"What. The. Fuck." screamed Draco, glaring at his godfather.

"You're coming with me," he said with terrible calm.

"What? Why should I? Take me back."

"No."

"I want to go back home. I will go back home. You know perfectly well that I can just apparate out of her," he snapped furiously and that, somehow, made his godfather look at him but didn't make him slow down the car at all.

"Yes," he said, risking another glance at him. "I am well aware that you could apparate. But you have never apparated in or out of a moving vehicle and you don't know how that would go. You could risk splinching or worse. But of course, apparate out if you were so happy back at the Mansion with a mad father and a mad house elf for company."

"Get me back home then if I cannot apparate," said Draco, hearing, but ignoring the last part of what his godfather had said.

"You can apparate but I wouldn't suggest you do it but it is your choice. Probably nothing happens if you apparate out of her, or probably not. I never apparated out of anything which was moving, not even from a broom or a carriage. It is your choice but I will not drive you back," he shrugged, something he had never seen his Uncle Severus doing – ever.

"Why shouldn't I want to go back? I want to go back."

"You sound like a broken record," said his godfather. "In case you're wondering, a record is like a CD which I know you have seen and experienced and a record was bigger and black and it could repeat the same thing over and over again if it was broken."

"Well then why shouldn't I want to go back? Malfoy Mansion is my home," Draco shouted angrily. He was angry. He wasn't sure what else to feel. There had been – he had met his godfather and had thought that for once, someone would just talk to him for a while about anything other than a weird Muggle woman, and suddenly, he had felt himself pushed into a car, his feet thrown back and the door locked on him and him being driven off. Without his seatbelt on. His godfather had dragged him away – had kidnapped him.

"If you use your own head, I'm sure you can figure out why you shouldn't want to go back to Malfoy Mansion."

Draco was silent. He had no idea what to say to this. He didn't want to think about why he shouldn't want to go back. Malfoy Mansion was his home. Had been his home for the first nineteen years of his life. And only because he had spent a few months living with someone else didn't make that his home. Just because there had been moments living with Mrs Callaghan that he felt absolutely at ease with himself and the entire world didn't mean that he should leave his home and call a hovel in a Muggle district the same. Just because he had been happy there for a while and just because he had been able to earn his own living, just because he had thought Aideen was the one person for him, didn't mean that he could...would...should.

He stared at his godfather. "Would you stop the car, please?" he asked solemnly.

For a brief second, he looked at him, then indicated left and stopped immediately. Draco had not expected that. Draco had expected him to keep driving, to stop him from apparating but his godfather was – if all else failed – unpredictable. Severus was Slytherin incarnate and no time spent in the Muggle world would change that. If Severus stopped, it was because Severus had a plan. Because Severus wanted to achieve something with stopping but Draco was prepared and he turned sideways on the seat, looking at his godfather.

"Just because I was happy there doesn't mean that I can be happy again," he said very, very quietly.

His godfather took a deep breath and sighed then. "Just because you once called Malfoy Mansion your home doesn't mean it still is home."

"Then I have no home," he replied tiredly.

"You could have one if you wanted and you know it. Now tell me, Draco, do you apparate out here or do we keep driving?"

.

She sat up, rubbing her aching, tired eyes and tried, for a moment, to find out where she was and why it was still dark outside. Hermione ran fingers through the tangles in her hair, then quickly hid her face in her hands. She had been drunk. She had got drunk in the middle of the afternoon on Irish coffee and the killer-headache she experienced, and that was most certainly not improving by her combing her fingers through her messy hair.

"Shite," she muttered to herself, her throat dry and scratchy. There had been...Ted had been on her lap and Harry had been there. She knew that Harry had the idea with the Irish coffee. Because she had been angry with Mrs Weasley. And then...then there was a blur. Nothing. Well, she would remember. And she would either have to remember to not drink anymore at all, or drink so much that she was used to it. She hadn't had so much as a glass of wine in the past...two long. And thinking about it hurt her head. And her stomach growled and she felt queasy. Maybe food would help. And knowing what time it was would help as well. Slowly and in her slept in clothes (the same stuff she had worn to the Burrow), she trudged down the stairs, rubbing her eyes and her face and still not feeling quite alright in her head. It hurt and her eyes weren't quite right and it felt like she was cross-eyed.

She pushed the door to the kitchen open, somewhere in the haze of her mind hoping that Harry wasn't there, that she hadn't said anything embarrassing during the time that she now couldn't remember. Ron? Had Ron been there? Somewhere in the back of her hazy mind, she knew that yes, he had been there. Ron had been there and she had...what had they talked about? Ron had said something about his mother. Ah, yes, Mrs Weasley was an insufferable cow. That was what they had basically agreed on. She thought. Or seemed to remember. Something like that anyhow. And then...what had happened then? Ron had been there and he had looked all grown up.

"Slept well?" she heard a voice behind her. Harry. Spinning around would be the right thing to do. Spinning around would hurt her head and would probably make her vomit – and so she just turned slowly.

"Don't know," she replied groggily. "What did I do?"

"You drank Irish coffee," Ron was coming out of the pantry, a massive bag of crisps in his hands.

"How much? A barrel full?"

"Just about," grinned Harry. "Nah, it wasn't so bad. But you were, erm, tired..."

"And I thought you'd be more comfortable on the bed," said Ron with a crooked, boyish smile.

"Thanks, yeah," she grabbed the bag of crisps from his hands and poured herself a glass of water which she gulped down as quickly as she could. It was cold and tasted like nothing and it soothed her stomach a little and she felt strong enough to open the bag of crisps and without another word, grabbed a large handful and stuffed the crumby crisps in her mouth. The boys were watching her and she knew they were watching her.

"What?" she asked after a moment, the crisps not quite in her stomach.

"Erm, you..."

"Don't you want some real food?" asked Ron, interrupting Harry who, she was sure, wanted to say something entirely different. "I'm sure Kreacher could make you something or we can go to the yellow Mac-thing that we haven't been to in ages and it's open all night, says Harry."

Hermione groaned, then shoved down another handful of crisps. "Why not, but only if you tell me what I did or said what I can't remember."

.

_**Thank you. **_


	71. Repetition

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_'Rhetorical' or – to use at once a wider and a more intelligible term – 'significant' repetition is a valuable element in modern style; used with judgement, it is as truly a good thing as clumsy repetition, the result of negligence, is bad. But there are some writers who, from the fact that all good repetition is intentional, rashly infer that all intentional repetition is good; and others who may be suspected of making repetitions from negligence, and retaining them from a misty idea that to be aware of a thing is to have intended it. Even when the repetition is a part of the writer's original plan, consideration is necessary before it can be allowed to pass: is is implied in the terms 'rhetorical' or significant repetition that the words repeated would ordinarily be either varied or left out; the repetition, that is to say, is more or less abnormal, and whatever is abnormal may be objectionable in a single instance, and is likely to become so if it occurs frequently. _

_The writers who have most need of repetition, and are most justified in using it, are those whose chief business it is to appeal not to the reader's emotions but to his understanding; for, in spite of the term 'rhetorical', the object ordinarily is not impressiveness for impressiveness' sake but emphasis for the sake of clearness. _

(Fowler, Fowler, 1922)

.

With gusto, Hermione bit into her burger and for good measure, stuffed three chips into her mouth. At once. She knew she looked more or less like Ron during every meal at Hogwarts but she didn't care. The greasy, fat food soothed her stomach and made her head clear. Made her thinking straight and made her stare at her two boys and the toddler who had, naturally, accompanied them, with barely concealed suspicion.

"So?" she said after she had swallowed the gooey mess.

"Nothing," said Ron quickly. A bit too quickly for her liking. "You were only a bit down because..."

"Ron left you and Teddy didn't want to stay with you when you reprimanded him," shrugged Harry straight after, feeding the boy a chip as well.

"Oh God," she groaned. "And nothing else?"

"Nothing else," Ron shook his head, and he still ate like a pig. He definitely still had worse manners than her.

"Nothing? Absolutely nothing else?"

"Well, there was one bit we didn't understand," said Harry pensively, trying to feed Teddy some Big Mac.

"And what was that?" she asked, happy that her mind was clearer now.

"Counter-curse," said Harry and grimaced, suddenly after which he shot an angry glance at Ronald. Oh. She was quick after all. They had decided, probably, that they wouldn't tell her what she had said while being out of it and Harry was too curious not to ask. Which was odd. Truly odd. She would have figured that Ron was the one bombarding her with questions, not Harry. But maybe, maybe she was wrong.

She popped another chip into her mouth and closed her eyes. So they knew about the counter-curse. She had talked about the counter-curse. Well, it could have been worse even if she had intended to keep this a secret. She groaned. They would probably want to keep her away from Draco and from working on the curse and they would think, especially Ron, that she was wasting a lot of effort. Ron despised Snape. Or...she actually didn't know. She didn't know what Ron thought about Snape. She didn't know what he thought about most things at the moment. She only knew that he still ate like a pig. She screwed her eyes shut tightly and thought for a moment, chewing. So they knew that she was working on a counter-curse and maybe even that she worked on a counter-curse with Draco. Did they know though what kind of counter-curse it was?

"Yes?" she asked innocently.

"What kind of curse?" asked Ron, his mouth full.

"Ronald, can't you swallow before you speak?" she groaned.

"Sorry," he mumbled around a bit of chip.

"What kind of curse?" Harry asked, bouncing Ted on his knee.

"Ah," she said. So she hadn't told them. Had probably just told them that she would have to meet Draco again soon. Or maybe not even that. Maybe she had just said that she was stressed out from working on the curse and on her uni-stuff. She probably wouldn't get them to give her a memory of her drunken self, even though that would be best for her. Ah well, she would have to outsmart them. Somehow. "What did I say?"

"You only said that it was too much and that you can't find a way to counter that curse. Whatever that curse is," Ron said, mouth empty.

She sighed, putting the burger carefully down. She knew it was a bad idea since it would fall apart, it would be impossible to be picked up again but she had to pay her full attention to the boys. And had to be careful what she answered. "Yes, well, we have found a way, we have found the words, that wasn't difficult but it's combined with a chant and we can't figure out what kind of chant it is," she shrugged.

"We?" asked Harry. Oh. So she hadn't told them that.

She sighed and picked a bit of pickle from the leftover burger. "Yep, we. Draco Malfoy and me. We work on this together."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Because he has the most extensive library and...since it's the counter-curse for the curse Snape was hit with..." she trailed off with a shrug.

"Hm," mumbled Ron around a mouthful of food.

"I think what Ron wants to say is why," Harry all but growled. And he was apparently a little angry. Or not but the bouncing of Ted on his knee had stopped. And he took the chip from the boy's chubby fingers.

"Why what?" she asked and handed Ted one of her chips who grinned toothily at her.

"Why are you working on a curse with Malfoy for Snape? And why don't you talk about it to us? Why all this secrecy?"

She shrugged. "The Ministry will never get to a solution soon and it's the question whether they want him to have his magic back at all but after Aideen and Draco split up, he needs someone by his side who is not quite a Muggle and Snape is that kind of person. It was as much Draco's idea as it was mine. We decided on it together," she fibbed. "And it wouldn't have been right to turn him down when he wants help with solving this for his godfather. I can let bygones be bygones."

Harry grumbled. "It's not that we mind you working on it but you haven't taken care of yourself and we didn't even know why," he said.

"We thought it was because the workload at Muggle uni was too much," added Ron thoughtfully.

Hermione could only stare in shock. This was – weird. Something was truly fishy about this. They were happy with that bit of information? They would...support her in her quest to bring the magic back to Snape? Even Harry who had not truly seemed angry after that short moment? And Ron was okay with her doing something for Snape? Fishy. Truly, honestly fishy.

She watched, half fascinated and half disgusted how Ron swallowed a huge gulp of burger, then drank rather a lot of coke all at once, then wiped his mouth at the back of his hand and then looked intently at her.

"We could help, you know. We've figured out worse things together," he smiled.

Fishy. Honestly fishy.

.

Severus watched in silent fascination how his godson wrinkled his nose in mock-disgust at the mess in his living room. So he hadn't put away all his books, and he had forgot to take his mug this morning back into the kitchen and there was a jumper hanging over the chair but it was certainly not looking like the pigsty Draco pretended it to be.

It had been the boy's own choice. The boy had chosen to fasten his seatbelt again and Severus had only kept on driving. He could have apparated out. At every traffic light. And he had just sat there, staring straight ahead.

And had suddenly turned back into the perfect, last pureblood scion. The last one holding up the candle, so to speak. It was unnerving and if he continued to turn his nose up at his, Severus's perfect living room, he would most certainly drag the arrogant boy under the ice-cold shower. Or douse him with the garden hose. Well, he would have to buy a garden hose first but that shouldn't be a problem.

Yes, he knew what it was. He knew why Draco was doing this but that didn't mean that he had to like it. This building of walls, of sneering, of revulsion upon everything. He had used the same tactics again and again. But they didn't work. They only turned people into lonely, empty shells. And Draco would most certainly not end up like him. Under no circumstances.

"You can sleep on the couch," he said coldly. "The shower is upstairs and of course you're still free to just apparate. I'm not holding you captive."

His godson nodded only and with an angry look, he left Severus standing and hurried up the stairs. It would probably be like that for a while. At least until he had prepared Aideen. Or Eleanor could draw him out of this. Eleanor – the miracle woman. She could. If someone could, it was her. He would have to tell her first anyhow and...

as much as he dreaded it, he knew that Granger was working with Draco and he would have to inform her. Sighing, he shrugged to himself and opened his laptop. He could always go over to Eleanor's while Draco was upstairs and showering or if he was truly quick, he could disappear next door before he was finished. But if he didn't email her now, he would forget and Granger would storm Malfoy Manor and that couldn't be good – for her to see Lucius that way and for Lucius to see that Granger was concerned over Draco. He would owl him as well even though he doubted that Lucius minded much. Was too busy seducing his Viscountess. And he would probably draw the wrong conclusions about Granger seeking Draco out. Except – Lucius knew about what the two of them did.

Which reminded him...

Why did that laptop take so long to get started?

He tapped his fingers impatiently on his keyboard without actually pressing any keys and waited. As soon as he could email, he typed, without actively thinking what he wrote – not like all the other times when he had email Granger. Now, it was clear what to write her and he finished quickly, shut the laptop down and as he could still hear the shower running (did that boy even knew what saving was?), he left his house and hurried around the front and rang, furiously, on Eleanor's door. He had to talk to her, explain, make her come over to his place while he stayed, hopefully, probably, with Aideen, explaining the entire matter to her. While Eleanor worked her own magic on Draco. Was probably the best idea.

"Severus? Is my car broken now?" Eleanor snapped at him, opening her door wide but he didn't let her continue.

"Where's Aideen?" he asked in a whisper.

"Upstairs. What's happened?" she asked worriedly.

"Draco Malfoy, The Ungrateful is back. He's taking a shower over at..." he gestured at his house."

"What? He's back? Did he come back? How...What...was that why you needed the car?" she asked, rushed but in a whisper, mindful of Aideen.

"I brought him back, yes," he hissed. "But he is not that happy to be back yet and I'd...could you maybe..."

"Give me your key and you talk to the girl. She'll listen to you more than to me," she said immediately, thinking along his lines and he was glad, glad that she could follow what he had in mind already. He handed her his key and with a sharp nod, he entered her house and as he watched her walking as quickly as the old woman could, with a hand pressed to her back, he closed the front door to her house and took a deep breath.

It had gone much better than he had thought. Much better. Not that he had thought all that much which had probably been a mistake. He shouldn't have just shoved Draco into the car but...maybe the boy realised that he was throwing a wonderful future away. That he pushed people who liked him away and Severus had done that too many times to know that it hurt. Hurt worse than any curse. For a brief moment he realised that he, even if he decided to get his magic back, which he hadn't done yet, could not possibly leave those people behind. Not Eleanor and not Aideen and not Eleanor's family. People who had accepted him for himself. And Eleanor...Eleanor did more than just accept him. Eleanor loved him. She had said so many times and if pressed, he would admit that he felt a deep sense of affection towards her as well. If not love. This old woman had brought him back to life and if he was any judge of character, she would bring Draco back to life.

And if Aideen was any kind of – reasonable – she would do her share. Aideen trusted him and if he played his cards right, he and Eleanor would have two amorous, terribly sickeningly in love young people close by soon enough.

"Aideen!" he called, moving to the kitchen and putting the kettle on. They would need it.

.

She had slept most of the afternoon but Hermione was still tired and so, after brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed, wondering about Harry and Ron (and having observed them for the rest of the time she had seen them for any kind of clue why they acted so strangely and uncharacteristically), she just dragged her laptop to bed with her, wanting to send a brief message to Aideen and, well, sort of hoping that Snape had emailed her. Not that he would. Why should he? He probably didn't care about her working on the counter-curse as long as there was no result. Or she had still piqued his interest? Was he thinking about it?

Ah, it wouldn't do to think about him so much. She shouldn't. She really really shouldn't but he had...he had looked good. And he had smelled good. And she had wanted to step closer and take a good sniff but...it wasn't any good. She had to stop that line of thinking before it turned serious in her mind. Unrequited love was the last thing she needed at the moment. Most definitely the last thing she needed. Stop that line of thinking.

The laptop perched rather precariously on her knees and she shouldn't put it directly on the mattress or it would overheat and that couldn't be good. Thinking about the laptop was good. Emailing Aideen and one of her professors, asking about a paper. That was important. Everything else wasn't. And maybe she could postpone meeting Draco. Just to make sure she wasn't digging herself deeper into the whole – thinking about Snape thing.

She sighed, the junk food in her stomach not that happy anymore, and opened her mailing programme.

No.

No.

No.

That wasn't true now. Two seconds ago, she had agreed with herself not to think about him anymore. And what was he doing? What was he doing emailing her.

For a moment, a rather brief moment, barely the blink of an eye, she was tempted to just delete the email. Delete and forget but then, that brief, very brief moment passed and eagerly, and smiling shyly to herself, she double-clicked and opened his email and happily – too happily – read.

_Granger,_

_just to inform you: Draco Malfoy is now back at Manchester and not with his father in case you were meeting him there. I suggest you wait a day or two until you contact him since he has to readjust to being back here. In the meantime, you should check Flamel's book on curses. I believe there is a rather long chapter about chants in there. _

_Snape_

Hermione smiled broadly and without emailing Aideen, without emailing her professor, she shut down her laptop and snuggled deep into her covers and into her pillow and tried to remember what he had smelled like and what he would smell like being closer to her. She could always reprimand herself for that brief lapse in the morning.

.

"What?" she hissed angrily.

"Just what I said," he replied.

"Over there? At your house?" Aideen was close to actually hissing and spitting, reminding him more of a hag from the Black Forest than a civilised English Muggle.

"Yes, Aideen, he came back," he replied calmly. She had reacted so differently from what he had expected. He had expected tears and fear and general irrationality and not with cold-blooded inquisitiveness. Women were known, he had experienced in all his life, to be unreasonable and irrational when it came to men. His mother was a prime example. Deveney, who had thrown a vase at his head, another. But Aideen – angry. Only angry. And not angry because he was back – but angry because he had taken so long, it seemed.

She huffed and without taking a moment to think, and maybe she was still irrational, she jumped up from her chair and out of the back door and judging by the noise, she was climbing over the stepladder in the garden and...he followed her as quickly as he could, but the door to his kitchen was already and open and all he could do was step in as well. Unsure where to go, he listened in his kitchen, then followed the angry hiss and stood just a step behind Aideen in his living room. Which, obviously, Eleanor had cleaned up a bit. His mug was gone and his jumper was gone. He suppressed a growl and focused on Aideen and on Draco.

Poor boy sat stiffly on the couch, Eleanor's hand on his arm and Aideen stood in front of him, glaring, her fists, much like Granger's on her sides (so all women, including Granger and including Aideen did that – and were irrational after all. Even though, Granger, irrational? He'd have to see about that...not thinking about her now. Focusing on what was going on in his living room).

"Aideen..." Eleanor said with a menacing undertone to her voice.

"No, Gran," she spat, "Get up, Draco!" she shouted then and the boy, strangely enough, obeyed and stood before her and barely a second later, he heard a resounding slap and saw how Aideen's flat hand connected to the boy's cheek.

"How dare you just disappear on me like that? I needed some time and you just decide to run back home to Daddy. I swear to God, Draco Malfoy, if you ever pull something like that again..." she slapped him again and this time so quickly that she could barely see her hand flying.

He was about to pull her back and Eleanor had got up as well, probably to pull him or her away as well or to stand between them when something so irrational, so strange happened that he could only stare at Eleanor and those two and took two steps back. Unlike any other normal man, Draco didn't step back either. In fact, he pulled his lower lip between his teeth and stepped towards her. Towards the woman who had slapped him (maybe some men were irrational as well) and Aideen, instead of slapping him again – or throwing a vase at his head (like any irrational woman would) – stepped towards him as well and a heartbeat later, they were in each other's arms, hugging violently.

Severus shook his head resignedly and was quite happy when Eleanor, with a grin, gestured him to follow her in the kitchen. He was quite obviously surrounded by irrational, strangely behaved people, but at least Granger and Eleanor at least seemed quite normal - for females.

.

_**Thank you. **_

_**(was something wrong with the last chapter or with ff dot net? I never got so few reviews for one chapter...mind, I'm not complaining, I'm over 3000 reviews (three-thousand! whooop) but I'm naturally wondering...)**_


	72. Dispreferred Second

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_. _

_As is often the case, the expression of a refusal (a dispreferred second) can be accomplished without actually saying 'no'. Something that isn't said nevertheless gets communicated in the following: _

_Becky: Come over for some coffee later. _

_Wally: Oh – eh – I'd love to – but you see – I – I'm supposed to get this finished – you know. _

_After a preface ('Oh') and a hesitation ('eh'), the second speaker produces a kind of token acceptance ('I'd love to') to show appreciation of the invitation. Then, the other's understanding is invoked ('you see') and an account is presented ('I'm supposed to get this finished') to explain what prevents the speaker from accepting the invitation. There is also a meaning conveyed here that the speaker's circumstances are beyond his control because of an obligation ('I'm supposed to') and, once again, the inviter's understanding ('you know') is invoked. _

_The patterns associated with a dispreferred second in English are presented as a series of optional elements below: _

_**delay/hesitate**: pause; er, em, ah_

_**preface**: well; oh_

_**express doubt**: I'm not sure; I don't know_

_**token Yes**: That's great; I'd love to_

_**apology**: I'm sorry; what a pity_

_**mention obligation**: I must do X; I'm expected in Y_

_**appeal for understanding**: you see; you know_

_**make it non-personal:** everybody else; out there_

_**give an account**: too much work; no time left_

_**use mitigators**: really; mostly; sort of; kinda_

_**hedge the negative**: I guess not; not possible_

(Yule, 1996)

.

With a jolt, Hermione woke up. She sat bolt upright in her bed and as quickly as she could, she pulled the laptop on her lap and started it. Faint recollections were there only. She had probably not been as sober as she thought she had been. Snape had written her. She remembered that. Snape had written her that Draco had gone back to Manchester? Could that be? Really? In her jammies, she had to check. Draco couldn't have gone back. He was sprouting his Purebloodism everywhere, explained to her that he was only tolerating her because she had proved herself to be thinking more like a witch than a muggle. And because she knew how to work on this counter-curse. But that didn't mean he respected her in any way, quite on the contrary. And him going back to Mrs Callaghan? Or even to Snape...that was close to admitting defeat and close to admitting that the Purebloodism wasn't any better than living in the Muggle world. With his godfather and...

Well. If Draco was back at Manchester, did that mean that he didn't need his godfather to have his magic back? Did that mean that...it couldn't be. She had misread it. Or it had been something out of her imagination and Snape had, naturally, not emailed her. She had just dreamed that. She had gone straight to bed after their McDonald's meal and had not even touched her laptop.

No, that was rubbish. Why else should it be next to her bed if she hadn't.

Finally, it her laptop was running and she could check.

There. It was. There. He had emailed her! He had. And Draco had indeed gone back.

Well. Wow. Well. She wiped the last bit of sleep from her eyes and blinked. Snape had truly emailed her. Snape had emailed her. She couldn't stop the grin from appearing on her face. Snape had emailed her.

Ah well, she had more or less made the resolution not to think about him anymore and to put the entire project with Draco and his magic on ice and maybe, with Draco and his godfather probably sharing a house now, or being neighbours, or close, she didn't even need to pursue the project anymore.

Even though – why should Snape mention another book, with another reference to chants if he wasn't interested in the least? She had suspected she would but that was without Draco in the equation.

Oh but it was so much better. Snape had emailed her so she had waited for him to make the, well, first move now and with Draco back with him, this changed the entire situation. She sighed as dreamily as she had never ever sighed in her life before (suspecting she sounded somewhat like Lavender Brown back at school) and lay back on her pillows, her arms stretched out to her sides. It would, definitely, be another early morning visit to Snape but this time, it wasn't anything about gushing, it wasn't anything about her or him – she was simply curious about Draco Malfoy. That was all there was to it. And by sending that email, Snape was basically issuing a formal invitation. He didn't have to write to come. That wasn't necessary. She could read the subtext. Even though..._I suggest you wait a day or two until you contact him since he has to readjust to being back here. _

It was a day. Almost. And she didn't want to contact him, she just wanted to see him. To make sure he was really there, really.

But. No.

She had only embarrassed herself lately when it came to Snape. And anyone else for that matter. She wasn't her usual put together self and she wasn't...she wasn't herself anymore and she needed to get a grip on things. Needed to get on top of her work and today was just the right day to do it. Tomorrow, she had her first lecture at eleven, she could briefly, on her way to Uni, drop by. Yes. Much better. Even though it was tempting and it was just early enough to hope to see another glimpse of Snape from the shower...no. No. No. Maths. Analysis. Geometry. That was on today's schedule. But he had emailed her.

Maybe...just a brief email back? Before she went down for breakfast? Maybe just a brief one? Or during breakfast? Kreacher could make her a nice cup of tea and she could read that email and email him back and...she sighed again. This was not normal. This wasn't her.

With quick resolve, she stretched her fingers on the keyboard. No mulling over it over tea. No waiting for an answer while having breakfast. No. She would email now, then study for the rest of the day. Forget about Draco and Snape and Snape and Snape and the boys' fishy behaviour (right – there had been something) and just study. Lose herself in her work. That's what she did best after all.

She nodded to herself, then typed quickly and left her bedroom and her laptop. She didn't need either of them for her workload.

.

Well. She had definitely slapped him hard. His left cheek had been rather more red than the flushed right one had already been after their embrace. His smile hadn't been quite as soppy as he had remembered seeing it before he had left, before the entire abduction but there had been a soppy smile nevertheless. And still, the boy had insisted, or Eleanor had insisted, or maybe both of them and Aideen, that his godson would sleep on his couch. Penance, after all, had to be served and on the sofa, too short for anyone to comfortably sleep on (as Severus could attest from few but enough midafternoon naps when he had just settled down with a book to read and his eyes had grown tired), was just the right sort of penance. At least for one or two nights before he would, indubitably, move back into Eleanor's house and his old room there.

Well. Severus smirked rather self-satisfied as he stretched in his bed early that morning. That had gone according to plan. The boy had had some more colour on his cheeks (even if one side was Aideen-induced) and he had looked more lively than before. He looked like a human being again, or had, last night. If Draco, though, was only a bit like himself, that morning would be full of self-discrimination, self-incrimination. Full of doubt again and, probably in Draco's case, arrogance.

Severus hoped he was wrong. He hoped that Draco would just be happy to be back, happy that the girl wasn't averse to continue their dalliance. And he hoped that Granger wasn't coming over. Or maybe, if Draco snapped back into Malfoy-Mode, it would be better if she did. Oh but if she was smart, she was staying away as he had told her to. He would most definitely tell her what he had told her – to stay away. But to be honest, he did not believe her to stay away. She was a nosy Gryffindor with a few...oh who was he kidding, he thought, as he pulled on some jeans and a jumper over his head, she had her qualities. Not that he found out yet precisely what they were. But there had to be some. He frowned.

She could apparate, even if her landings were a little off. Even if – hell yes, he could still feel her lying there. Which wasn't bad but he was a mad after all and those nights with Deveney hadn't even been that remarkable. Just a relief, really. And she had shown bravery. Great bravery in the face of whatever came towards her. He had to give that to her, albeit grudgingly (he convinced himself). Strange that she wasn't that much older than Aideen or Draco but could behave like she was ten years their seniors. Or ten years their junior. She had stopped, it seemed, almost with her know-it-allness. Had stopped waving her hand in the air – metaphorically speaking. Well, she wasn't truly Miss Granger in his eyes anymore. Not that she was Hermione – heaven forbid. Just Granger worked nicely. But she did have her qualities. The fact alone that she was trying to look for a counter-curse...whether he wanted it or not. She was head-strong, or, in other words, stubborn. But she clearly cared about Aideen and about his godson as well. And she had...he groaned. Now he was even trying to list all her good characteristics.

Shaking his head, he walked very quietly down the stairs, his feet in the black socks barely making a sound on the old steps. He did not want to risk waking him up. He didn't want to see whatever mood he was in before he had a cup of tea.

No, a quick look into the living room showed the boy curled up on the couch, one of his pillows clutched to the boy's chest, hast asleep. Severus only took hold of the laptop, because clearly, if Granger didn't show up, she would email (of that, he was certain), and because it was usually a good idea to check if any of the lectures he had had been cancelled and an email about that had been sent. Silently, he put the kettle on and switched on the laptop as he bustled and threw a teabag into his mug.

Waiting for the water to boil and the laptop to be ready, he tried to stand as still as possibly. Draco was out there sleeping, he had written an owl to Lucius and had received no answer, Eleanor had almost cried when she had seen her granddaughter and his godson embracing and for a brief moment, just before she had ushered Aideen back home as well, she had embraced him, too. He shouldn't admit to that, and he probably shouldn't even feel that way, but he enjoyed it. Every time, Eleanor embraced him, told him she loved him, smiled at him, a part of him wanted to lean in, wanted some more, wanted to ask for more. Such as it was, he was known to be a cold, unfeeling bastard (well, those people who had known him from his former life would say so at least) who couldn't stand being touched or to touch. As a matter of fact, he wasn't even sure that was true. Eleanor had given him more life in the past year than his mother had given him all his life. More than he had been given all his life. More than he could have ever imagined being given. Eleanor was...she was the reason he wanted to stay a Muggle. And she was the reason he didn't. He wanted to make her feel better, had noticed the way she had walked, had noticed the way she pressed her hand on her back. Had noticed how slow she was from time to time. It wasn't anything very obvious. It wasn't that she suddenly stopped and gasped or let a pan or pot fall from her hands. It wasn't that she was particularly frail but he knew she was in pain.

And for that, he wanted his magic back. To ease her pain.

Besides, he never wanted to try side-along apparition with Granger again. Even if it meant...feeling her thighs so close again.

Rolling his eyes, he poured the boiling water of his teabag and opened his emails.

Yes. Yes, of course. She couldn't wait. She had probably discussed with herself, upon waking, or the night before, to come over. She had probably considered, and had heeded his warning. Had most likely made at least a mental list. Had thought and thought and had come to the conclusion, after a while, that it was better she waited the time he had proposed. He had to remember to get up a bit earlier the next morning though – she would probably be standing on his doorstep at six thirty this time. Or tell Draco to get in touch with her before she could invade his house again. He would have to retaliate one of these days. Get to where she lived these days very early in the morning. Very, very early.

He shook his head and swiftly opened her email. He had to get this over with before he could think about her even more. She was taking up too much space in his mind as it was. Her being courageous upon seeing Malfoy Manor. Her acting on his command when it was necessary and obeying without questioning him. He appreciated those qualities. It wasn't that she had kept quiet, she had, as far as he remembered, offered her own advice, often unbidden, but in the end and when it was important, she had done as he had said.

She had trusted him.

That thought hit him low in the stomach. It was like a punch meant to hurt, like a punch that was supposed to send you to your knees. She had trusted him. She trusted him still, probably. She trusted him. Granger trusted him. Trust.

He knew that Eleanor, Aideen, their family, they trusted him. They, apart from Eleanor, didn't know his entire story, he was just the neighbour, and Eleanor was a kind soul, so it wasn't hard to trust. But Granger? Why should Granger trust him? Him. He had done absolutely nothing in his life to earn the trust of any people. He had fought, he had done what had been the orders of others. He had obeyed and he had never expected to be trusted. The trust he knew stemmed in Legilimency and his ability to occlude his real thoughts, his true thoughts – and, as far as he could see that now, wasn't any real trust at all.

Eleanor trusted him to bring back some food for her when he went to the shops. Aideen trusted him to keep her save on the way to Uni and back. And Granger – Granger had trusted him.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Granger trusted him. Swallowing, he opened his eyes again and a smirk crept across his features as he read the email she had written.

_Snape,_

_I must admit that I was very surprised to hear that Draco is back with you (or not you? Mrs Callaghan? Aideen?) and I would naturally like to hear the entire story but you probably won't tell me, will you? I'd very much like to see him but I am rather busy today and probably tomorrow as well but I could make the time before my first lecture tomorrow morning which will start at nine. Would that be convenient for him? Could you let me know?_

_Best,_

_Granger_

Ah well. He pulled the teabag from his mug and before he could add any milk to his tea, his fingers flew over the keyboard.

_Granger,_

_tomorrow morning will be alright. _

He paused for a moment. Deep inside, he knew his answer but he wasn't sure whether he was ready to admit it yet. Admit it to himself, admit it to her. Admit it to anyone. But he knew his answer. He had it. It was there. It was clear. If he wanted to...keep his life the way it was, if he wanted this to continue for years to come...if he...He had to. He had to. He would face the consequences when it came to it. He would deal with it. He would find a way. He had always found a way. He would find one now. And he wasn't alone. Despite everything, he had Eleanor and he had maybe even his godson and Aideen. Granger trusted him. She would accept his answer. Even if he wasn't ready to admit that he knew it yet.

Without writing anything more, he clicked on send.

.

Ever since the moment Draco had been woken by his godfather typing on the laptop, he hadn't been able to think clearly. He couldn't decide whether he was more than happy to be back where he had been happiest, or angry at the way it had happened. He had been forced, yes, but his godfather, and some part of him was grateful, had seen that he hadn't been himself back at his former home and even the minute couch in Severus's minute living room had felt more like home than his gargantuan room at the Manor. Nobody played golf there, nobody learned how to ride a horse and nobody sat at a table for twenty when there were only two people. His Uncle Severus's table in the kitchen was only big enough for two mugs and two plates. Mrs Callaghan's table could hold maybe six if pressed tightly against one another. It wasn't conceited and it wasn't all shallow and yet, he knew that this wasn't truly where be belonged either. He didn't belong in the Manor anymore and neither did he belong there. His godfather had not made him talk, Mrs Callaghan had only hugged him tightly and Aideen's embrace was something he had longed – secretly – to feel since the last time he had experienced it. He wasn't sure what to do, what to feel.

All day long, he hadn't known. He had no better idea than to stay and he certainly didn't want to lose her again. She had kissed him with a vigour he had never believed possible. She had kissed him again. Had slapped him, yes, but barely twelve hours afterwards, she had kissed him and neither Severus nor Mrs Callaghan had raised any sort of protests.

It had all changed, or maybe he had changed and he wasn't sure what he felt or how he was supposed to feel and he hated to admit it but maybe, just maybe, he would have to make discreet enquiries with Granger when she'd come over. The next morning, as his godfather had informed him. Stupid woman, Granger. Always eager to work out something for Snape but at least, and that brought a smirk on his face as he lay curled up on his godfather's couch again (too small the damned thing), he would find out whether she was still gushing about him when he was present.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**Sorry if I haven't got around to answering every single one of your reviews. I'll do better next time, I hope.  
**_

_**Waiting to hear back from my job interview from last Wednesday and damned if I know how that will work out (because it does, I will have to work two jobs and six days a week, every week and probably move) if the last word is not with me nor the employer but with bureaucrats and no, I don't like them. **_


	73. The Generic Masculine

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The concept of the generic masculine is frequently extended to cover corresponding phenomena on the the lexical level such as Engl._ man 'male, human', _metaphorical expressions like Engl._ brotherhood, fraternise, _Germ_. Väter der Grundgesetzes _'fathers of the constitution'. _

_Over the last twenty years, the generic masculine has become the focus of the feminist critique of language. Linguists pointed to the far-reaching consequences of the male/human-ambiguity inherent in masculine generics: women can be excluded from important rights almost at will. […]_

_It was the ideology behind the generic masculine rather than these practical consequences, that the critics attacked, because the generic masculine expresses, confirms, and also evokes the view that women are the secondary sex, are less important and less representitive of 'mankind'. Bodine (1975) who demonstrates how the generic masculine was proscribed and alternatives suppressed in prescriptive grammar speaks of MAN as 'andocentrism'. Silveira (1080) points out that MAN implies not only a 'people=male bias' but also its reverse, a male=people bias. […]_

_Are women human beings? In this overt form, the question sounds bizarre today, but is has been discussed quite seriously in the past. At a council held in Mâcon in 585, e.g., a bishop claimed that women could not be called 'man'. This point was not only put forward as a philological problem pertaining to the extension of the lexeme 'man' (homo=, but also as a theological question pertaining to the human nature and the existence of a soul in women. _

(Braun, 1997)

.

The tea was made. He had showered, Draco had showered and they were both – waiting. Sitting in the kitchen, waiting. Not that Granger had said anything about a specific time, nor had he told her to be there at a specific time but he had explained to Draco, in no uncertain terms, that he had to be up at six thirty the latest and the boy, pale and with dark circles underneath his eyes as if he hadn't slept, had obeyed. Not that he had explained precisely why he had to be up, but the boy had been – good. He didn't look much better – honestly – than he had at Malfoy Manor. Maybe, slightly. His eyes had a brighter sparkle but other than that, the distinct paleness and especially the dark circles were worrying. Severus knew he had to deal with that sooner rather than later but only after Granger's visit. She should get her shot first. She could whip him back into shape. Undoubtedly arriving with at least three books tucked underneath her arm or in that horrendous book bag she had constantly slung over her shoulder back at Hogwarts. No doubt she would swamp Draco with so much work that he couldn't even think about what being back there implied and what it would mean to him and his family. Was there a family? Probably not. Or probably Malfoy Manor – or the place where that possible, presumable Horseface lived – was swamped with horsefaced children, greys, he thought, smirking. And Draco's mother – not truly available, wandering around the world without, probably, a care in the world. Draco was best put there with people who loved him – Eleanor, Aideen and someone who took care of him and well, liked him. Him. Ah, well, he might just as well admit to feeling some sort of affections towards his godson. It wasn't forbidden and it wasn't wrong. He wanted his godson to be fine. He wanted to see his godson well cared for. And Granger could kick him into shape again. Granger with the help of, well, him. He would tell him. Now. Soon. With Granger present. He wasn't sure which.

Clearing his throat, he straightened, taking a calculating look at the boy. The circles were – almost black.

"Hm?" asked Draco, looking back at him.

"You haven't slept," stated Severus, squinting at his godson.

"No," replied the boy. "Your couch is tiny."

"The floor is bigger. You could have slept on the floor," he sneered.

The boy growled. "And I could have slept in my bed over there but that's utterly beside the point."

"There is a point of you complaining about the couch being too small?"

"You know that that wasn't the important matter," he huffed and stuck his nose in his cup of tea.

"It wasn't?" asked Severus, pretending to be surprised.

"You know very well that it wasn't, Uncle Severus," he hissed the title. "Don't try to play me. I used to be a Slytherin as well."

"I'm not playing you, Draco. I gave you a square chance of going back home..."

"After shoving me in the car," he interrupted.

"Yes, because I wanted to talk to you," he sighed. "And you can still leave now."

The young man shot him a calculating glance, just as he had done earlier and a moment later, he sighed himself. "Why did I have to get up so early?"

"According to the circles around your eyes and your statement earlier, godson, you didn't sleep at all, so it shouldn't have mattered."

"But..."

Severus watching him as he struggled for words, then took a leaf from Eleanor's book and refreshed his tea while waiting quietly. The boy wasn't sure what he wanted. The boy knew he had a choice and he didn't know which was the right one. Well, as long as he stayed there, they had the chance to make sure he picked that one, and wasn't going back to Lucius, Horseface and the future greys. Granger would certainly agree with him and he knew that Aideen was more than happy the boy was back, and so was Eleanor. Grudgingly, he admitted that he felt some sort of contentment to have his godson back as well. Not under his control, not where he could see him, but where he knew that the boy had the grand chance of being smothered in love.

He had wanted to wait until Draco was ready to speak but the damn Granger woman was too busy ringing his doorbell and escaping Draco. Well, he would have to postpone telling Draco about his decision. Would make it simpler anyhow if he and Granger heard it at the same time.

.

Hermione straightened the hem of her t-shirt and made sure the cardy sat straight on her, that the jeans were there entirely, that her feet and shoes on her feet were where they were supposed to be. And, this time, she had taken a precaution and pulled a small compact mirror from her book bag and peered, curiously, into it. It was all there. Eyebrows, eyelashes, eyes, hair, a little windswept, lines on forehead, lips, ears. Head where it belonged. Everything there. No need for him to laugh at her. Even though...she wouldn't mind hearing him laugh again. Not at her, but at something. Anything but her. Or smile. Seeing him smile would be...

She pushed those thoughts firmly to the back of her head, stuffed them in a box and rang the doorbell. It was half past eight. It was not too early and she still had about an hour or so before she had to apparate to York and to Uni. That would be enough time, plenty, really, to talk to Draco and take a long, good look at Snape. Or maybe even talk to him for a bit. Maybe he had already made up his mind about his magic. And if he decided against it...no, she didn't want to think about that possibility. If he decided against it – she had absolutely no reason to see him again. Well, in passing if she went to see Aideen, or maybe Draco, but other than that...and she did want to see him. Get to know him a bit more, at least. And that was what she...no. That thought to belonged in the box at the back of her head. She would just continue to get on with her life as she had the day before. Studying, focusing on her maths. On her notes, on what she had to do. Her friends. Ted. Making sure Kreacher was efficient. Too many things such as it was – without Snape crowding her mind.

A moment later, the door opened and he stood there. Tall and slim and almost skinny and imposing. Smirking. His hair freshly washed and needed a trim. So did she, as a matter of fact. Needed to get to that hairdresser again, have it redyed and recut. Was getting more difficult to get into shape. And was windswept more easily, especially from apparition. She plastered a tiny smile on her face and it grew into a grin when he just nodded and with gestures, ushered her in. He did look rather good in his jumper and the jeans and no matter what he decided on, magic or not, she wished he would keep this clothes. Not that she had any say in the matter.

"Granger," he said courtly.

"Snape," she replied but her tone, she knew was chipper and the word resounded in the air, echoed around her, hung back, sounded too girlish for her ears, sounded stupid.

"He's in the kitchen," said Snape, the corners of his mouth twitching treacherously.

"Are you tempted to laugh at me again?" she snapped.

He shook his head, his lips sort of quivering. Hermione grimaced. She had absolutely no idea why she constantly seemed to amuse that man. She had checked. She had definitely left nothing behind while apparating. Maybe he was just – remembering how utterly ridiculous she had looked.

Or maybe – oh, he was good – he was trying to make sure that she thought something was missing in her face or somewhere else on her body. He was just trying to unsettle her. The Slytherin.

She frowned at him and then, decided on another tactic, smiled her most beatific smile and brushed past him, touching his arm in the process and sailed into the kitchen, making sure that her hips were, more than usually, swaying from side to side. If he wanted something to look at, if he wanted to unsettle her, so be it. She knew she wasn't much to look at but her bum was okay when it wriggled like that. Or maybe she was just making a fool of herself but at least she couldn't see his face when he did. And no, this time, she wouldn't embarrass herself. This time, she would be calm and composed, even towards Draco and this time, she would make sure he had absolutely nothing to smirk, smile, laugh at the next time she saw him.

She straightened her shoulders and knew that her hip swaying sort of got lost at that but there was less ammunition for him with that anyway and with a deep breath, entered the tidy, clean kitchen.

.

Erm. Yes. Well.

Putting, obviously, on a display for him. Swaying her hips like that, that bum in those tight jeans...well. The gushing then...no.

Well, it was clear, wasn't it? He had insinuated, with only the slightest twitching of his lips, that her apparition hadn't been entirely successful again, and she had, somehow, retaliated, or thought she could. Or had succeeded. With that hip-swaying. Women. Irrational.

He took a deep breath and only caught a last glance of her as she straightened her back and her hip-swaying stopped immediately. Ah well, not her natural way of walking then. Of course it wasn't. She was usually more trampling and traipsing in those sensible shoes of hers, and of course, there, he saw it now. It was there, right there, slung over her shoulder. Book bag. The same one. He had to smirk to himself. It was like Granger to keep the threadbare book bag she had already used in her first first year.

He shook his head to himself and followed her into the kitchen. He had a decision to tell those two. Would be interesting to see how Granger reacted. He could image his godson's reaction quite well – but Granger's? Not so much yet. And that was strange – so far he had always been rather certain how she would react to certain things. It had been clear that she would email him back, it was clear that she was retaliating in some kind to his insinuating the failed apparition with the twitching of the lips, her coming over as soon as possible, her coming to defend her not-gushing or gushing. All so certain. But her reaction – he couldn't say what it was.

Either she would be happy and beam – or she would be indifferent. Or maybe she was unhappy, though that seemed unlikely. Well, no, not that unlikely. But she would try and hide her disappointment. Though why should she be disappointed?

Without preamble, he stepped into the kitchen, drew himself up to full height and made sure his voice was loud and clear and comprehensible.

.

"Draco," she said softly, putting that damn old book bag on the floor and seemed to want to hug him. Her arms were raised towards him as he sat and tried to drink his tea and she came towards him with a broad smile.

"Hmph," he replied and inclined his head towards her.

"My my, what a lovely greeting. Aren't you a morning person?" she smirked and he was painfully reminded of the time when everything had been almost normal and he had made fun of her for not being up decently at ten in the morning. Back then when...another lifetime, almost.

"You know very well that I am but what are you doing here?" he snarled.

"I came to see you," she shrugged and smiled. "And to bring you this..."

"I hope it is Flamel's book," his godfather said, suddenly, behind him. "I remembered it is a lot more useful considering chants than the other book I told you about. I will not have a wand pointed at me and someone, either you Draco or Granger sing something uselessly at me."

Draco's eyebrows shot into his hairline and he stared, rather curiously, rather unabashedly, rather open-mouthedly at his godfather. Did that mean what he thought it meant? Did that mean that...he wanted it? He wanted to be a wizard again? His hands sneaked underneath the table and when he thought nobody was watching, when pinched himself. Hard. Very hard.

"What?" Granger was a split second quicker than him.

"Flamel's book," Severus pronounced very clearly. "Do you have it with you?"

"Does it mean...?" stuttered Draco, trying, he thought, to get his eyebrows to where they usually were.

His godfather only arched an eyebrow and put his face into a sneering mask. "Well?"

"Erm, yes, I have it," Granger stuttered as well and for the first time, Draco could take a good look at her. She was beaming. Smiling didn't even begin to cover it. Sparkling. She was bloody sparkling. Well, her face was, everything else would just be disturbing. She dived, with the silly smile on her face, into her book bag and seemed to almost fall into it and he took the chance to look back at his godfather. The man was smirking. Smirking. Looking rather proud of himself. And, if Draco squinted just a little, it almost looked like his Uncle Severus was looking at Granger's behind. Rather curiously. With a smirk. At her bum as it half hung over the chair. Interesting.

No, he did look. Then as he saw Draco watching her, he scowled at Draco. Interesting. He had to fight back a smirk himself. So the gushing had obviously reached open ears. R maybe the gushing was a result? No matter what, it would most definitely be most interesting to watch those two. And if those two worked together on the chant, it could not only be beneficial for him (because Severus needed his magic) but also for Draco himself. It would be most likely be most entertaining.

He smirked and made sure his Uncle Severus saw it, then took a look at Granger's bum as well, as she still almost hung in her book bag. There was something to be said about muggle jeans.

"Draco, if you're done staring at Granger's arse," drawled Severus, and it was him again who smirked at Granger as she shot up, glaring, but with the book in her hand.

"How many books do you have in this? And how many spells are holding it together?" he said quickly. "And I wasn't the only one staring at your behind," he added, winking. This was fun. This was the most fun he felt since...he had left this place. In a second, his godfather would glare and would tell her that no, he hadn't stared. In a moment.

No. He didn't. He grinned. His godfather grinned. Draco felt like he had been transported to an alternate universe with a grinning godfather and a Granger whose arse was something worth staring at.

"Seriously," huffed Granger, sitting firmly on her bum, "we have work to do. And you wanted this book," she said and held it out to him with a challenging look.

"Indeed," he drawled, the grin replaced by his neutral, serious mask and a moment later, he had taken his place, had pulled his mug of tea to him and opened the book.

.

Hermione felt like rubbing her head and scratching her belly. Or maybe the other way around. Or maybe she felt like she was in a dream. In one of her Head-Severus dreams. So a little hip-swaying had made him look at her behind? Truly? No, he was just trying to unsettle her. And with Draco's help too. She felt out of the loop. Out of her depths with two Slytherins on one table.

But oh, he wanted it back. He wanted to be a wizard again. He would...he wanted it.

Despite everything, despite their trying to wind her up, or their obvious efforts to make sure she embarrassed herself, she couldn't help the smile creeping on her face again. He wanted his magic back and she would do her bloody best to make sure she was the one who allowed him to have it back and she would do her bloody best that she wasn't only singing at him but turning him into the proper wizards that he deserved to be again.

.

_**Thank you and sorry that I couldn't reply to the reviews individually. I will try since there are a few I really want to reply to...  
**_

_**(I have a job interview tomorrow but it seems more like a formality. Those people truly want to offer me a job, even if it's only eight hours teaching English to young adults. Me. Teaching English. To unruly kids. And they truly seem to want me. I'll keep you posted and please, before you say anything: No matter if I have one job, two, three or none, this story and those that I have in my head will never be abandoned. If I take another job, the updates might take a little longer but I need to write and I want to write. Okay?)**_


	74. The Semiosphere

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Semiotic systems are in a state of constant flux. Such is the law too of the semiosphere which is subject to change both in its inner structure and as a whole. Within the framework of each of the substructures which make up the semiosphere there are elements which are fixtures in its space, and elements with relative freedom of movement. The former belong to social, cultural, religious and other structures, while the latter have a higher degree of freedom of choice in their behaviour. A hero of the second type can _act_, that is, can cross the boundaries of prohibitions in a way that others cannot. Like Orpheus or Soslan from the epic of the Narts, he can cross the boundary separating the living from the dear, or like the Benandant he can wage nocturnal war with witches, or like one berserk he can fling himself into battle, defying all rules – naked or clad in a bearskin, howling like a beast and killing his own people as well as the enemy. _

(Lotman, 1990)

.

His godson walked on thin ice. Had walked on thin ice since Granger had left with her ancient book bag. And without Flamel's book which still lay on his table, open on the chapter on chants. He had reread it, and Granger had read it with him while Draco had scribbled notes from another book. At least both of them had been quiet and had not bothered him that much. Not that they had found a solution but then again, they had only read for about an hour before Granger had left.

Only then had he looked at Draco's notes. And the ice had grown papery thin. Hearts on his notes. Hearts with initials in them. Not only, and he could have lived with that, an A and a D in those hearts – but, and then the metaphorical blades he used to skate over the metaphorical ice had suddenly burst into flames as well, an S and an H. Partnered with the sly grin, Severus had felt sorely tempted to just punch the boy. Granger had seemed oblivious to that, even with the sly grin that had been there even when she had been there. And when she had left, it had only grown.

"Well, well, well," the boy said as soon as they had watched Draco apparate from the garden, his arms crossed over his chest to fend off the cold, smirking at him.

"Wipe that smirk off your face, there is nothing to smirk about," huffed Severus.

"Did you or did you not stare at her? Did she not admire you? She was making eyes at you, Uncle Severus. Honestly. I tell you, she's..."

"One more word, Draco, and you will sleep in the bathtub," remarked Severus off-handedly. "I do not care what you think Granger thinks or what you think I think."

"I can always ask to go back to my old room over there," he smirked, then turned serious and towards him, put his hand gently on his arm and all the smirks and innuendos were gone. "I know," he said slowly, "what it's like to be loved and then not to be loved."

Without saying another word, with only a further pat on Severus's arm, he climbed over the wall and only looked at him briefly. "I will bring Aideen to Uni later. She asked me."

Severus stared at his godson's back, and tried very hard not to look utterly stupid. The boy had...what was it that he had said precisely? That he was back for good now? That he still loved Aideen? That being loved was preferable to not being loved? That boy had no idea. There were kinds of loves that were most certainly preferable to others. But that was about the extent of it.

So, he had taken a good look at Granger's bum. Who could blame him? She was quite young and her arse did look like her thighs had felt. Firm. But this was to look at, not to touch. Young girl with a perky arse. Who would not look if the situation presented itself in such a way.

But that didn't mean that he thought too much about her or thought about her at all, or that he was in any way attracted to her. Love? Preposterous. There was, he believed, one person who had so far in his life told him that they loved him. That person was Eleanor. And the maternal love was about all he could manage, all he wanted. Granger? Granger had nothing to do with it, and only because she apparently gushed over him, and because she had swayed her hips in his direction and only because he had looked at her bum didn't mean anything.

He shook his head to himself and, the cold seeping into his jumper, he went back into his kitchen and sat down at the table. Neither his godson nor Granger had managed to put their cup away at least in the sink. Now, he had given both of them some tea, and both had finished their tea and their cups were still on his table. And he without a dishwasher. Well, Draco could do that when he returned. Would serve him right, especially because he was too kind-hearted to actually make him sleep in the bathtub.

It didn't matter anyway. It didn't matter that he had been surprised at the way she had so quietly been able to work and had only mentioned the few things she wanted Draco to jot down, the way her hair had fallen in her face softly or the way she had smiled at him warmly. It didn't matter. The chapter in front of him mattered and he needed to maybe get some more references. Or get Draco and Granger to get some references.

Grumbling, he put the cups in his sink and made himself a fresh cup as well before he sat down again, his eyes on the old book. He used to have one like that once. Maybe this had been his once. No, there were absolutely no markings in it, nothing underlined. Pristine condition. Probably Granger had bought it just for that. But that didn't matter either. He had a task and had to go to his Morphology class later.

.

It had been very clear. Their treatment of her had been only to provoke her. Snape couldn't possibly be interested in her bum and he would, most certainly, not look at her from his side as her hair was falling over her eyes. And she was most certainly not thinking about him. Not on her way to Uni, not during her lecture, not during the time in the library and not during lunch, not during the other lecture and not on her way back to London, when she actually contemplated whether she shouldn't just go back to Manchester and work on the curse some more.

No, she hadn't. She hadn't thought about his black eyes never leaving her or spent her time wondering whether she was just imagining it. Not at all. It was simply ridiculous. The man was twenty years her senior. The man had a past darker than any night in the year. The man wasn't good looking or handsome and he certainly wasn't charming. Oh but he oozed...something.

She knew she had to get a grip. And maybe, just maybe, she needed her friends. Not telling them that she was some sort of object to play with, to sharpen their Slytherin-fangs on for Malfoy and Snape, but just that...she just wanted some peace. She just wanted a good conversation with her friends during which they would – once – listen to her speak. Try to solve her problems.

Not that there was one.

Oh to hell with it, she thought as she entered Grimmauld Place. This entire game of denial was ridiculous and worthy someone ten years her junior. Or maybe five. So, maybe she just had to consciously realise, to agree with herself, that she had a crush on Snape. It wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. And if she came straight to to it to Harry and Ron...yes.

It was an idiotic plan but maybe those idiotic Slytherins had rubbed off on her and it would probably be something a Slytherin would do. So if she told Harry and Ron and Ted that she had a crush on Snape, which she had, probably, they would do their damnest to make sure to see her how stupid that was and how wrong. And if they had enough good arguments, and could somehow sway her with their good arguments, the crush would be gone. And an unnecessary crush it was. Stupid and without any basis in any real life experience. Apart from that almost hug with the stupid apparition. Apart from the way he looked at her. Apart from the fact that when he spoke to her, it wasn't in derisive tones. Apart from his emails that she had printed out and kept in a little box by her bed. Apart from the way he trusted her to find a counter-curse. Apart from his lovely sarcastic comments. Apart from the fact that...no. Her crush was irrational and she knew it and that was exactly while the idiotic plan was brilliant in itself.

If she told Harry and Ron, they would name all the arguments why it was irrational and stupid and unrealistic and only based on a perfected image of him and by that, she would be pulled out of the irrationality because...well, because she could eventually see the light.

Hermione almost ran up the stairs and dropped her heavy book bag on the lowest step before she changed into more comfortable trousers and a soft, warm shirt. It had grown cold outside and Kreacher was obviously not quite prepared for winter. Neither was she but it didn't matter. She took a deep breath, pulled her hair, even more windswept than before, into a ponytail and ran down the stairs again, knowing that by that time, her boys (her three boys – what a lovely thought) were in the kitchen, eating.

The trouble was, how to begin. Would she simpler and squeal like someone like Lavender Brown would? Or state it calmly and most sensibly as she, herself, would do? She probably had to find a way between. They would think her unhinged would she act like Lavender Brown and they wouldn't take her seriously if she was completely herself. Maybe a Luna-Lovegood-like dreamy look. But not too much.

Taking a deep breath, still trying to convince herself of that stupid plan (and a part of her shouting to let it go because that crush could be something wonderful and something to dream about), she entered the kitchen. Yes. The usual picture. Ron eating like a pig, Harry keeping an eye on Ted's eating habits (and that Ted could not see Ron too clearly) while taking a bit once in a while himself. Kreacher bustling around the table.

She smiled. This was the life she liked. It had nothing to do with Snape and with Draco. Those boys, she loved, and those boys she loved would get her right on track again. End of story.

"Hi," she said, testing her Luna-dreamy-voice.

"Hey," replied Ron with his mouth full. "Come sit down, we still have some fishfinger butties."

"Grand choice of food," she muttered.

"Teddy loves them," grinned Harry, "How was that plus and minus stuff?"

"Oh, we actually learned how to multiply and divide today," she smirked and grabbed herself a fishfinger butty, grease oozing out of it.

"That's great then," laughed Harry. "Good to know you're broadening your...knowledge."

"Yep, isn't it?" she said wistfully.

"You alright, Hermione?" asked Ron, and the poor bloke did exactly as she had predicted. He was still so worried about her, maybe guilty from the fact that he dumped her, that he made sure to watch her, closely. And her face was probably the right mask of...whatever it was that a person with an unhappy crush was supposed to look like.

"I don't know," she sighed.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry immediately.

"I think I have a problem," she sighed, knowing her plan, idiotic though it may be, was on it's way. Like an avalanche.

.

"Severus? Are you in there?" asked Eleanor, standing in the backdoor and while he was in full view of her, she thought it was maybe better that she gave him a bit of warning. He was leaning over a book, his shoulders hunched and his hair so long that it almost fell into his eyes.

"Yes, come in," he said gruffly, his skin paler than usual but his eyes alert.

"Draco just returned with Aideen," she said gently. "And despite my very obvious wishes, they're now, oh, what's the word, snogging, in the living room." She rolled her eyes and pointed at the chair next to his. "May I?"

He nodded briefly and shut the book, a few sheets of paper stuck in the pages.

"Anything special?" she asked, groaning as the weight was lifted off her feet. She really shouldn't be climbing walls at her age again.

"The..."

"Counter-Curse. Draco mentioned it. I just didn't think you'd still be at it," she smiled. "So you do want it back? The magic I mean."

He shrugged and that in itself was so rare a thing that she was taken aback by the hopelessness it implied.

"Severus, talk to me."

"This book won't help and the all the other books won't help and sometimes there just aren't any solutions," he said and almost sounded as if he didn't care. But he couldn't fool her.

"So you have decided that you want to be magic again, or magical, or how do you say it, and despite your best efforts but think that there is a way and with this Ministry thing..."

"The Ministry has nothing to do with it. Granger said that they would allow me a wand back," he interrupted.

"Well, that's one thing out of the way, but as I was saying, despite your best efforts..."

"Yes, yes," he almost shouted. "Yes, I was hoping for it. But there is nothing. I know it."

"I've never known you to give up," she said softly, her hand stroking his hair slowly and he let it happen. He just let her stroke her hair and that made her smile. "And now you have one book in front of you and you think it's hopeless? I remember a man who carried home two huge pots of paint from ASDA and he was so determined that he made it without stopping. Or a man who painted his entire house within two days. A man who..."

"Yes, you made your point," he spat.

"And yet, you give up here. Or want to give up?"

He sagged. Literally. Not quite against her but so close to her that she could easily pull him to her side and wrap him in her arms. "Severus, listen to me. If you want to find a way, I'm sure you will. Those two you have by your side to help you, Draco and Miss Granger, they want to find a solution for this. They do. And..."

"Do you know how many ways there are to chant? Do you?"

"No, Severus. I'm just Eleanor Callaghan and I'm a Muggle and apart from church, I don't hear chants. But I know you and I know Draco and I know Miss Granger a little. And if you don't give up, you will find it. But you want to give up."

He shook his head against her chest. "I don't."

"Then why this sudden case of hopelessness, eh?"

"I don't know," he whispered. "It seems so vast a field and I..."

"You realise how dangerous magic can be, I think."

"Yes, but not only for what could happen to me when they pick the wrong chant and just sing at me. In the best case, nothing happens and in the worst case, this book says, I'm dead. And what if it is successful? What if what Draco and Granger want to happen, happens? What if I do get my magic back, what if I'm a fully fledged wizard once more, and the Ministry allows me to use it and I realise what kind of power I possess again? What if I don't use it to do good things? What if I turn..."

"You won't turn dark again, Severus," she whispered and pulled him tighter to her. "You have seen the dark side and I know that you will fight for the good for the rest of your life. Didn't you rescue Aideen? Didn't you bring back Draco? Don't you fetch an old woman her tea and her shopping? I know what you're thinking, Severus and I know what this is about. This is not about not having any hope that this curse will not work on you. It's about what happens if it does. And I will tell you exactly what will happen. You will be able to do magic, and you will finally fix the rain gutters as I've told you to do repeatedly without having to go up there by yourself and I know you will be happier..."

"I cannot be happier," he exclaimed passionately.

"Yes, you can. You are happy now, or as happy as you allow yourself to be but there are still things missing. I know Draco is suspecting you and Granger have something. Go after that when you have your magic back...nah, nah, don't interrupt me this time," she held up a finger, "Or go after someone else who is not a lecturer and who is more your type or if you like, go after that strange woman you've been with again. But love, Severus. Love. And I don't mean love an old woman. Love and do your magic. Brew your potions and wave your wand about. Be complete Severus. And you cannot be complete without your magic. Or, without love."

"I've..."

"No, Severus, don't find excuses. We've all had loves in the past that went horribly wrong. Take a risk. My God, you have taken the biggest one of all. You started an entire new life here, but there was one part of you missing. Now get that part back and then continue your new life. Here. I won't let you go anywhere anyhow," she smiled and kissed his forehead. "And don't ever have that look on your face again, lad. Hopelessness doesn't suit you and sulking suits you even less."

"I don't want a..."

"Shush, I said. I don't want to hear about, 'I don't want a wife or a woman', or 'I don't need love'. I don't care. But be happy. Fully happy. And fully happy will only be when you allow yourself to have feelings towards other people. Other than me. You can tell me what you like, I know you love me. And I love you and it's good but I'm an old woman. I won't be here for ever. I will be kicking the bucket sooner rather than later and who's to look after you? Just think about it and don't be scared of being yourself again."

.

"I," Hermione said slowly, putting the good butty back on her plate. "I would like your advice on something."

"Our advice?" asked Harry. "Wasn't it always the other way round?"

Ron smirked. "Of course it was. Hermione, you never came to ask our advice."

"But now I have and I mean no offence and I just want an opinion," she said very quietly and blushed.

"What is it?" asked Ron.

"Mi-Oh-Knee," interrupted Teddy who was trying to crawl over the table and who could only be held back at the last minute by Harry who handed him to Hermione. Hermione, strangely enough, cuddled him immediately and buried her nose in his hair. Ron hadn't ever seen her act like that and his curiosity was piqued. She had a problem and she was coming to them with her problem. The world had clearly been just put upside down.

"I, erm, this is so embarrassing...I think, no, I know that..."

"What?" Harry was growing impatient.

Hermione swallowed, it seemed and wiped her hands over her eyes. "I have a crush on Snape," she said.

.

_**Thanks!**_

_**(I more or less have the job, meaning teaching dunderheads up to eight hours a week) but so far, I haven't signed anything and since the Headmistress was absent (even though she made the appointment with me, she never showed up), there are still a few questions I have. But looks good. Thank you for your very kind wishes!)**_


	75. Understanding

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_What we are suggesting is that the notion of 'understanding a sentence' be explained in part in terms of the notion of 'linguistics level'. To understand a sentence, then, it is first necessary to reconstruct its analysis on each linguistic level; and we can test the adequacy of a given set of abstract linguistic levels by asking whether or not grammars formulated in terms of these levels enable us to provide a satisfactory analysis of the notion of 'understanding'. Cases of higher level similarity of representation and higher level dissimilarity (constructional homonymity) are simply the extreme cases which, if this framework is accepted, prove the existence of higher levels. In general, we cannot understand any sentence fully unless we know at least of it is analyzed on all levels, including such higher levels as phrase structure, and, as we shall see, transformational structure. _

(Chomsky, 1957)

.

Her two boys exchanged glances but for the life of her, and as much as she knew those two, she didn't know what it meant. Their looks seemed to border on the bored, on the uninterested. Hermione frowned. This was not how she thought it would go. Harry should have, by now, exploded, and Ron's eyes should have bulged and his ears grown bright red before he began to shout. But they still sat quietly, only looked at one another.

"I have a crush on Snape," she repeated in case they hadn't heard her but at least her dreamy Luna-gaze was absent.

"Yes, and?" asked Ron, looking almost – bored.

"Didn't you hear me?" asked Hermione back. "I have a crush on Snape."

"We heard you alright," replied Harry, bored, shrugged.

"I don't..." she shut her eyes tightly and pinched her thigh before she sat Ted on the table. He wouldn't mind.

Once more, she found herself transported into a universe which wasn't hers. Twilight Zone, surely. It was a ridiculously stupid dream, maybe. A dream that lasted an entire day – first Snape and Draco staring at her butt, then Harry and Ron were understanding of her crush on Snape? She got up and walked around the huge table in the kitchen once, then twice before she banged her head against a cupboard. Only slightly. She didn't want to hurt herself after all. She only wanted to wake up. Or if she was up, she wanted fate, or a superior entity, controlling her life, to get a grip again and push everything back into the ways that everything had been in.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" asked Harry angrily, picking up Ted and cuddling him to his chest.

"Explain to me why you're not foaming at the mouth? Why you're not shouting angrily and why you don't tell me that I'm stupid and that I should have my head checked."

"If you keep on hitting your head against that cupboard, you will have to get your head checked," remarked Ron, grinning.

"Ron!"

"We just assumed," he shrugged. "You worked on that project for him and who would do so without an ulterior motive? Or feelings?"

Harry nodded. "And besides..."

"You mentioned him a few times," interrupted Ron quickly. "We just figured it out. We're not as stupid as you seem to want us to be."

"I don't..."

"He's joking, Hermione," said Harry, soothingly and bounced, once more, Ted on his knee.

"You only figured it out?" she asked, suspiciously.

"What's there not to figure out? It was either you having a tiny crush on Malfoy or one on Snape. Or you are really the most swotty swot there ever was. And since you have the academic, you know, challenges with your plus and minus stuff, we figured it was a crush," Ron smirked lopsidedly, boyishly. She could tell that he was magnificently happy that he had, apparently, found this out. And they had. Or had she...huh. Maybe. It seemed more likely that she had, possibly, blurted this out in her drunken Irish coffee stupor than those two being so perceptive. She frowned.

"I didn't say anything while I was drunk, did I?"

"Nope," said Harry quickly, grimacing.

"You only talked about the curse, Hermione."

"You don't think we could figure this out by ourselves? Seriously, you really think we're stupid or something," added Harry.

"I don't," she back-pedalled very quickly. "I just didn't think _I_ was that obvious."

"To be honest, you weren't," said grin and pulled on her hand – made her sit down again and as soon as she sat, he shoved a cup of tea in front of her. "But we are capable of finding out one thing or another in due time. And we've had some time since you told us about the curse. We even, almost, went so far as to make a list why you would do that but in the end, it wasn't necessary."

"We just didn't think you'd tell us."

"I almost didn't," she said, "I mean I wasn't sure of it myself and I just am so confused about this."

"Everyone would be confused, Hermione. Having a crush on Snape. Really."

Those words – Harry's words – were a glimmer of hope on her pseudo-Slytherin plan. Maybe, she thought, she could still get them to talk sense into her. Or maybe, she thought, she just had to ask them to talk sense into her when it came to that. Imagine – her, the most sensible girl this planet had ever seen – falling for someone like Snape. Well, she wouldn't go so far yet. She hadn't fallen for him but there were a twinge of feelings when she thought about him. And what he had...hadn't he told her what to do about her eyelashes?

She shook her head slowly. It was no good. "And what should I do?"

"Nothing," exclaimed Harry. "Absolutely nothing. If you tell him we have to handle weepy Hermione and weepy Hermione..."

"Harry's right," interrupted Ron. "What are the odds of this coming out okay? I mean we support you in this but..."

"I don't understand you!" cried she. "What happened to you? This is Snape! Snape! Not Tom, Dick or, erm, yeah, well, not Harry. It's Snape. You hated him. You both hated him. And now he's suddenly considered good enough for me?"

"He would be," shrugged Ron. "But what are the odds? Even if you..."

"He loved my mum and my mum was friends with him. He did something stupid and he had to live with the results. And he did."

"But you hate him."

"I don't hate him anymore," shrugged Harry again. If there was a World Championship in shrugging, those two would clearly win. "I don't see him anymore and he's not trying to kill me at the moment, is he? He hasn't even been unfair to me in the last...well, quite some time. And when we went to see him, it was alright what he did. I don't hate him. It would be kinda weird to have him as your boyfriend though..."

"Yeah, mate, it would. Imagine Snape coming out of the bathroom wearing nothing," laughed Ron.

"Or making you tea in the morning and bringing it up to you in bed," Harry made a choking noise.

"Oh, with a flower on the tray. And scowling at us for using the last of the milk," Ron sniggered.

"Oh, oh, or standing in front of the door after you had a fight and proclaiming his never-dying love for you."

"Singing, Harry. Snape would be singing."

"What the..." Hermione shook her head. "What are you doing?"

"Just having a bit of fun," answered Ron. "Or maybe, he wouldn't be the romantic bloke. But just, you know, coming in here with that scowl and seeing Hermione and throwing her over his shoulder and carry her straight..."

"Alright, I understand," she huffed and got up once more. "You're not..."

"Don't say we're not helping matters," said Ron, quickly. "This is what you want? Being serenaded by Snape? Or being thrown...ack. Really, Hermione. We would be okay with that but it would have to happen at his house. At least the throwing over the shoulder bits. And maybe the snogging bits."

"Nah, I wouldn't mind seeing them snog," shrugged Harry.

"What?" cried Ron and Hermione at the same time.

"Seriously, at least then he couldn't berate either of us," he laughed and Hermione quickly, after that, left the kitchen, shaking her head. Something was wrong with her. She had somehow slipped into another world – an upside down world.

.

Ron still sniggered when they heard the door to Hermione's room shut with a loud bang. Kreacher hated it when either of them banged doors but the old elf only scowled but didn't say anything. Teddy didn't understand what all the fun was about and shot Harry and questioning glance while he tried to stuff another biscuit into his mouth.

"No, Teddy, that's enough biccies for today. Don't want you an a sugar high," he scolded softly. The boy looked crestfallen and pouted, earning him a kiss from his godddaddy.

"Overkill, mate. That last one was..."

"Why didn't we tell her she told us drunk?" asked Harry, pulling Teddy's sticky fingers which he had put on his cheeks away.

"Because if we tell her that she told us while she had too much to drink, she will never get drunk again. And drunk Hermione is rather entertaining," Ron laughed.

"But seriously, what if there is something between her and Snape?"

Ron shrugged. "There won't be anything. Can you honestly tell me that you can see it? He's probably still a git and besides, as you said, he was in love with your mum. That's just wrong. She's fifteen thousand years or so younger. Snape probably already has a bit of stuff anyway. And if we can be there for her, maybe she will..."

"You want her back," stated Harry.

"No, I don't want her back," said Ron sadly. "But I feel bad that I did that to her. We should have never began something and I'm just happy that she talks to us like that again. And I want her to be happy. And I can't honestly see her being happy with Snape."

"Hm. But I suppose we need a plan if there truly is something between them in the future."

"I suggest," answered Ron slowly, "earmuffs and some sort of goggles. Make us walk around deaf and blind."

Harry laughed, then paused a moment before he looked at his best friend again. "Would you, I mean, could you mind Teddy tonight?"

"Oh? A date?" Ron tried to wriggle his eyebrows suggestively.

"Yeah, mate. But don't make a big deal out of it."

"Sure I will mind Teddy. If you tell me if it's a boy or a girl."

"Teddy's a boy, I'm a boy."

"Oh haha," he rolled his eyes. "Your date."

"You don't have to believe anything Hermione says when she's drunk, you know? She somehow got it into your head that she thinks that I am not with Ginny anymore because..."

"Ginny thinks the same thing."

"They're both wrong," he said with a huff and kissed Teddy on the cheek again before he gave the boy to Ron. "For your information: It's a girl. Her name is Tina and I meet her in the shop the other day while I bought your milk."

"Good looking?"

"What do you think?" grinned Harry. "And she doesn't look like my mother, or Ginny, at all."

.

Eleanor's word were still ringing in his ears. He heard them in his head and they made him think. Those words had struck something inside of him. He wouldn't say that it would change his life – he was too set in his ways – but he had listened to her. This old, wonderful woman had found the words that he, apparently, needed to hear.

Love. One could easily think that Severus Snape, as a person with all his flaws, was allergic to that particular word. Love, so far, had brought him nothing but terror. He had listened to the old man waffling on about it, had experienced a strange kind of love with Lily and it had only brought pain. And yet – he soaked up every bit of affection that Eleanor (or Aideen) directed his way like a dried out sponge. He revelled in the fact that Eleanor never hesitated – not even a second – before she hugged him, or pressed a kiss on his cheek or forehead. She never waited for the opportune moment to put her hand gently on his cheek or chin but just did it. Not even his own mother had done that. And to have something like this to return to every night was a thought that...overwhelmed him. To return to affection in the evening, and then to sex at night.

Severus snorted. As if something like that would ever happen to someone like him. He was one of the solitary figures that life, or fate, sometimes produced. He had gone through all of his life alone. He had never, apart from Lily, wished for the kind of love that Eleanor had spoken about. He was the metaphorical Steppenwolf. The lone rider.

Nobody had so far asked – not even himself – whether he truly wanted that life. He had never questioned it. Potion making, to take an example from his former life, was an art form which was best practised alone. And he, the spy, had to stand alone. Any other people knowing what he was up to, and he would have, most likely, ended up dead.

He would have died alone and he wouldn't have cared. The last time, he had almost died, he hadn't been alone, however. Had it made any difference? Had it been a consolation that Potter, Weasley and Granger had been there when he had, seemingly, drawn his last breath? So far, he had pushed the thoughts of this night so far back that he even had a hard time remembering, like a dream from the night before last. But hadn't it been a consolation that the last thing he had seen were the eyes that had looked, still looked, presumably, so much like Lily's? Delving deep into his own psyche and into his own thoughts and into his own feelings, he knew that, yes, it had been a consolation. It had made it simpler. Not knowing if the antidote had worked, not knowing whether he would ever wake up again had been simpler while seeing those eyes. And – it had made it simpler waking up and knowing that he would never see into those eyes again and feel the urge to protect, the bond with the son and his mother. He had been able, due to looking into those eyes at his apparently last moments, to let go off Lily. He had been freed from the bond, from the Vow. He had been free, upon waking in Azkaban, to pursue another life.

Eleanor seemed to understand that, seemed to know that. Seemed to sense that he needed that.

Did he need it?

He snorted again.

When had anyone ever asked him what he needed? Not in his former life. Not Dumbledore. Not Voldemort. Not any of his colleagues. None of his students. Nobody he had known. Eleanor – yes. And these days, maybe even Draco and Granger. Draco and Granger, as well as Eleanor, seemed to know that he wanted – needed – his magic back even before he himself had known that. Granger...

Granger seemed to be the one that both Eleanor and Draco thought of highly. As, mind, someone for him. Did he feel something about Granger?

He shook his head. She was annoying and asked too many questions. She was a blundering Gryffindor with the tact of a rhinoceros. But she was willing to help and if he judged their characters correctly, it had been her, and not Draco, who had begun working on the counter-curse before involving the other. She wanted him to have what she thought, he needed. What she, and all the others, considered to be a part of him that he could not, and should not, let go. She was, when all was said and done, considerate. She worked quietly in his presence and she was, to a certain extent, certainly beautiful. She was young. She was lightness personified. She was the good in the world. She, who had wanted to free house elves had made him, apparently, her next object.

No, that wasn't right. She would have acted more imperiously if he had been a project but in the end, she had stated, plainly, that it was up to him. And he hoped that she would have acted upon his wishes if he had declined his magic. She would have, he thought. She had grown up since the days of her elf-freeing days.

Feelings towards her? None. But he did think about her. And he had done so in the last couple of days, or weeks really. He certainly wasn't indifferent to her anymore. But tender feelings? None.

He looked up in surprise. Eleanor seemed to think she was right for him. Draco seemed to think the same thing. He, on the other hand, was a level-headed man and he needed reason. He liked reason more than feelings and so...he shrugged a shoulder. He could, he thought, give this a try. Not a relationship but he could see, with open eyes, what happened if he spent more time with her. Reasonable. He would have to try to see past the former student. Past the former know-it-all. Seeing if she was still like that, or any different and see if there were any feelings after a while. And if only to spite Eleanor and Draco who were so bloody convinced.

He nodded to himself. This was him. Directing himself by reason and not letting him have his feelings direct him. Simple.

Well, it was easy. He clearly needed more books on the subject of chants and Granger would help and if he emailed her about apparating both of them to, say Malfoy Mansion, it would be a start. Then go from there.

.

_**Thank you!**_


	76. Aphasia

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**This one for atomicmom. It was her idea (or insistence), blame her. **_

_._

_Aphasia is defined as an impairment of language function due to localised cerebral (i.e. brain) damage which leads to difficulty in understanding and /or producing linguistic forms. The most common cause of aphasia is a stroke, though traumatic head injuries suffered through violence or accidents may have similar effects. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

Hermione had made the decision and stuck to it. She had made the decision the moment she had finished reading that last email, the one which had, first, made her heart jump and skip. And why shouldn't it jump and skip? The man she sort of fantasised about and dreamed of, sort of, wanted her to apparate him to Malfoy Manor. It wasn't any close contact, only his hand on her arm but at the same time, he wanted her to come with him. He wanted her to come with him. He could have just taken his car again, but no, he wanted her to come with him. With him. To go. There. To Malfoy Manor. Well. He asked (alright, basically commanded) her to apparate him there. And she knew, this time, there wouldn't be any real fear. There wouldn't be much apart from him, apparating with her. With at least his hand on her arm.

But then, reaching the end of the email and resisting the urge to print it (and it wouldn't even have been much to print anyway: _Granger, please be at my house at 9 in the morning if you do not have a lecture since I need you to apparate me to Malfoy Manor. Snape_), she decided that it had to be played cool. She had to be her reasonable, level-headed self and of course, and on impulse, she practised, stupid as that sounded, apparating. She popped herself from her room to the library and back, from her room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the library. For good measure, she apparated to Cornwall. Only because she could and because it was some distance away and back to the bathroom. No, she could apparate without losing her balance, and without splinching part of herself or her entire self. She was completely competent in her apparition, even to Cornwall and back. Well. It was kind of stupid to apparate in her pyjamas to Cornwall and back but she needed to be prepared and she couldn't embarrass herself once more. Not in front of him. She needed to be cool and she needed to be composed. She needed to have her bearings even if he did hang on to her. Even if he decided to hug her, she needed to finish the apparation. He would probably do that, just to spite her, just to make her lose it. And she would not. She would definitely, no matter what, finish her apparition and finish it on both her feet. And with him on both his. For good measure, she apparated to Land's End, then back again. Everything still in place but a huge yawn split her face. Apparating was damn exhausting. And she fell into bed, knowing that she could apparate – even if he should smell good. She could do this – and that was the last thought on her mind.

.

She hadn't replied, and so he figured that she would be there at nine. He didn't – couldn't – tell Draco where he was going. He had no idea how the boy would react to the fact that he was going to see his father (with Granger). And, with any luck, he would catch a glimpse of the horse-faced aristocrat as well. He was curious about her, to be honest and he could hardly wait to see the look on Granger's face once she realised that Defender of Purebloodism, Lucius Malfoy, decided to woo a Mudblood. Not that he thought of anyone as being a Mudblood but aristocrats...oh well. Mustn't let his own upbringing interfere. He took a last glance at the mirror. Not that he had got dressed up or anything. Jeans were clean though, his jumper was clean as well and the leatherjacket was bound to get too cold soon but it would do for now. Eleanor had cut his hair again the night before, just briefly, maybe because she needed the contact and maybe because he needed the contact (and didn't know) or maybe because it gave them something to talk about besides Draco and Aideen and the conversation they had earlier then. No, she had come over again, and quite matter-of-factly had just told him to sit down and without any other reference to their earlier conversation had cut his hair. It was a weird, strange, foreign feeling for him to hear her clipping the scissors that close to his ears and even though she had done it multiple times before, he hadn't been able to help the shiver and the slight rising of his shoulders. It had made Eleanor laugh, however, and he had smirked. It had definitely taken his mind off all that would happen that day. All he wanted, on the surface, was to look at some books, maybe copy out a few pages and maybe even take one or two with him. Nothing more. But diving beneath the surface, this was more. It was almost like testing of waters. Was Granger someone he wanted to get to know better – he didn't know. But he knew he had to keep an open mind and he needed not to intimidate her. No smirk when she apparated, no sarcastic comment about her skills. He didn't want to be nice – just neutral. Or as neutral as he could be.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, keeping his fingers warm, and walked slowly down the stairs when he heard the knock. Bright and clear and unmistakeably Granger. Only she knocked like that, possibly. Eleanor banged more against the door, if she bothered, and Aideen used the doorbell. Draco never bothered, or if he did, his knocked resembled Eleanor's more than it did Granger's. No, it was clear. Twice – with the knuckles against the door, probably.

At least, he thought, she was on time. It was a quality which seemed to be rare those days and he liked punctuality. It was necessary for plans with a time limit, it was necessary to plan at all. He sighed, tried to make sure to keep an open mind (wondering, at the same time, how one went about making sure to keep an open mind) and opened the door.

Well. She was there at least – all of her. On time. He nodded sharply and stepped aside to let her in. "Granger," he said neutrally and had, what he considered a neutral look on his face.

"Snape," she replied with the same nod of the head that he had used earlier. Well. It was – different – than usual and he was actually at a loss at what to say. He had noticed the jeans and the jumper and the short jacket and the sensible shoes but all of her features were in place and he would not mock her for an apparition gone wrong. Not only because he wanted to be – neutral – but because she might just refuse to apparate him. And apparition, if he was being honest with himself, was the most convenient way of transport. Another few hours in that car of Eleanor's and that would either break down or he would make sure it would break down. Or the police would catch him, driving without a licence. Besides, he eyed her not critically but trying to remain neutral, her thighs were...oh sod it.

She broke the awkward, heavy silence. "So...why do you need me to apparate you to Malfoy?"

"I need their library. We need their library," he answered immediately.

"We've looked through it. Draco and I, I mean. We were quite thorough."

"I take it you didn't look in Malfoy's special collection," he almost sneered. Almost.

"What special collection?" asked Granger.

"The one he keeps hidden underneath floorboards and underneath strong warding," his eyebrows, he couldn't help it, shot up. "I doubt Draco knows about those."

"Dark books?"

"Dark, not so dark, light, whatever you want to call them, they would not fall under the heading of 'approved by the Ministry'. Not in the last sixty years or so," he stated – neutrally – forcing his eyebrows back to their original place.

"I see," she nodded. "And you can access those books?"

"That is my problem, isn't it?" he said, quicker than he intended to say it and almost frowned. He did not want to be demeaning, he did not want to talk to her like she was stupid. But she didn't look hurt and she didn't look chastised, she only looked, well, normal. Her hair was getting a bit long again, maybe, the tips falling over her shoulders but she had, somehow, managed to keep the curls as tidy as possible. No wild bushy mess, or mass, of hair. He sighed. "Lucius owes me more than one favour, Granger. He will let me see all the books."

"Okay," she shrugged. "If you say so. Mind you, he wasn't there were often, when I went to work with Draco. I think he was there a total of...two times."

"I would have thought so. If he isn't there, you will have to break in then," he said casually.

"What?" she almost shrieked. Ah – shrieking women. Never failed to amuse him.

"You are the one with the wand, are you not? No pun intended since..."

"Oh please," she waved it off. "Such things should be below you."

He smirked. "Indeed. Shall we?"

She nodded, then shook her head. "Why are you..." she paused, looking strangely at him. She seemed to consider her words carefully and her mouth hung ever so slightly open.

"Why am I what?" he asked sharply.

"Nevermind. Let's shall then, eh?"

"Poor grammar, Granger," he quipped as he pointed at the garden in the back and with a roll of her eyes, she proceeded there, letting him watch her as she walked. At least she wasn't consciously trying to wriggle her bum. This way, and in her sensible black shoes, it was less pronounced but still a definitive wriggling of her bum. He smirked almost appreciatively and followed her, watched her as she pulled her curls into a ponytail, probably to keep them from being too windswept by the apparation, revealing her long, slender neck to him. It was a nice neck as well, graceful. Her neck and her bum were certainly on the plus-side but he knew enough not to base his decision, whether he could find her attractive or not, on such things. Attractive, she was, but attracting his attention with only a bum and a neck? No. And within ten years, the bum would be gone (or charmed to look like this one but in reality sagging or fat) and the neck, eventually, would grow wrinkly. But for the next years (and longer for the neck), it was something rather pretty to look at. Something enjoyable, he had to admit. Severus tried to clear his head as he looked at the hand she had reached out for him to take and a smirk, once more, threatened to appear on his face. This hand looked inviting and didn't normal, regular people who stood at the beginning of something hold hands? Why shouldn't he try that as well. Maybe, there would be something.

He grasped the hand and reminding himself of how he had seen Aideen and Draco do it, he pushed his fingers between hers, entwining them. The smirk on his face, as if it had a life of its own, made a brief appearance as he saw her frown and the biting of her lip as she stared down at their joined hands but it was so brief that she managed, obviously, to catch herself before she looked up in his eyes again.

Hers were clouded with something. There was something in her eyes and had he been able to use Legilimency on her, in that moment, he would have. It was, possibly, the first time in his life that he wasn't able to read a Gryffindor without entering said Gryffindor's mind. The expression on her face, usually so like an open book, was closed, guarded. It wasn't by any means defensive or appalled. But it wasn't joyful either (and joyful, he would have expected with all her gushing – or supposed gushing – about him). Inside, he shrugged, outside, he shot her a look with his eyebrows, once more, arched.

"Shall we get on with it?"

"Let's shall," she smirked a little and, grasping his fingers rather tightly, trapping them between hers, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and with a pop, they were gone.

.

So it wasn't to be a hug. Holding hands. Hermione almost snorted. He would come up with something like that. Had clearly changed tactics once more, probably to keep her from suspecting that he was using any kind of tactics. Whereas it had been the direct messing with her before, it was now a subtler attempt. Being close to nice to her, not demeaning in any case, no smirking, no scowling, no sneering. He was just acting – normally. Neutral. Not overly friendly, not overly mean. He was definitely trying to play games with her. But she wouldn't allow it.

Alright, so, she had to admit to herself that it was a nice feeling to have his hand in hers or hers in his. His fingers were warm and manly and his hand big and protective but in the end, she knew it was a game to him. Bring Granger to madness, he probably called it. But she wouldn't. She would finish this, would give him his magic back and then disappear from his life. If Harry and Ron weren't willing to help, she would have to help herself and keeping away seemed to be the best of options.

He held her hand tightly, just as she squeezed his fingers during apparition. It wouldn't do to lose him halfway across the country. Imagine losing him somewhere and then having to go look for him – in such exotic places as Birmingham or Cheltenham. She focused on her apparition as she had done the night before during her practice and she held his hand tightly. This time, she would land on her feet and he would land on his feet.

It was over before it began, really and a split second later, she truly did land on her feet, even if she was slightly bend over but there was still a hand in hers and even if she had splinched him, she got to keep his hand. Carefully, she looked to her left and there he stood. On two feet. Upright. Good, she thought. That wouldn't give him more ammunition, hopefully.

Hermione wanted to pull her hand away now. It was confusing and it was dreadful and she just wanted to let go and be on her own. She did not hold hands, she disliked being led somewhere but for a moment, it almost seemed like he did not want to let go and for a moment, it almost felt like he wanted to pull her hand up to his face and kiss, with his lips, her hand. But only for a moment. Only briefly before he, non-smirking, non-sneering, non-scowling, let go off her hand.

She swallowed thickly. He would have to go from her life. Yes, now, it was still her self-imposed duty to find the counter-curse but as soon as that was achieved, or as soon as she could openly admit defeat, she would be gone from his life. She would make her apologies to Aideen and to Draco but she couldn't, under any circumstances, see him again. It was utter madness. She had let herself be played with for too long a time anyway. This was over. No more games. Just her being reasonable and him being snarky. That would do.

"He really golfs," said Snape incredulously, a moment later.

"What?" she asked, pushed away rudely from her thought-process.

"Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, over there," he inclined his head towards the front of the manor and there stood a man. A man in plaid trousers and with long, silvery hair in a ponytail, swinging a golf club.

"It can't be Malfoy," she replied.

"If you cannot see that that's Malfoy, I suggest you see an optician. Or an ophthalmologist. Or another eye doctor," he said softly.

"Why's Malfoy golfing?" she asked, taking a few steps towards the supposed Pureblood-obsessed man.

"His new flame, you could say," replied Snape, smirking brightly.

"What? Did you...huh? Is that...a woman? With him? There?" she squinted. Maybe she did need glasses. She blinked rapidly a few times. Maybe what her mother had told her was finally coming true. Maybe she shouldn't have read all those nights with only a electric torch, or later her wand, underneath her duvet in bed. Maybe her eyes had finally caught up with...what a thing to think about, she chided herself gently. She would test her vision, and if necessary would go see someone about glasses but the sight in front of her, now that she had stepped, with Snape by her side, a little closer was worth a shrink instead of an optician. "Who is that?"

Snape sighed. "A far as I remember, her name is Gwendolyn Something-Or-Other. Viscountess Brackley."

"Viscountess?" she almost cried out loud.

"Yes," he drawled.

"Lucius Malfoy golfing with a Viscountess. Lucius Malfoy who almost killed me because I am a Mudblood is golfing intimately," she gestured towards the couple which, by now, stood embracing, "with a Muggle Viscountess?"

They didn't only embrace. Malfoy had moved behind this woman and seemed to grind his plaid trousers into her backside. Or parts of his plaid – plaid! – trousers. This wasn't happening. Whatever this was, and as weird and as strange as the entire Wizarding World could be – this was an alternate universe. This wasn't happening. She hadn't apparated with Snape holding her hand, and Harry and Ron had not reacted almost happily about her telling them about her crush on the man who had held her hand during apparition and Malfoy was not golfing with a Muggle Viscountess who seemed to rub her own backside against the front of Malfoy's plaid trousers.

She shook her head and looked around. There. A tree. She could lean against it for a moment and maybe she would be transported back into reality. Out of this nightmarish, strange dream. Pinching her arm, she wobbled to the tree and pressed both her hands and her forehead to the trunk, breathing in the earthy, wooden scent of the tree.

"Granger!" Snape hissed but since this wasn't happening at all, since she was probably at this moment in the Janus Thickey Ward anyway, she didn't have to listen to those voices. Or to this voice only. Chocolatey, rich, soft, gentle voice.

"Granger, for heaven's sake. He just decided that he needs to stop the inbreeding," he hissed again, the voice coming nearer and nearer. There was a sigh behind her and a bit of warm air brushing against her ear and her neck. "Granger, don't be stupid. It does look strange but he just follows his own reasoning. He..."

"I'm going crazy. I'm standing here solidly on my own two hands and going crazy," she muttered.

"You're not crazy and this is really happening," his voice spoke directly into her ear. No, that wasn't happening either. "Granger! Pull yourself together. There is a simple explanation. You're behaving irrationally."

"I'm behaving irrationally because I'm crazy now. Lucius Malfoy golfing? That's clearly tipped me over the edge now. I mean...this is the indicator that I already fell over the edge."

Snape, or someone in the Janus Thickey Ward dealing with her and her hallucinations, grasped her shoulders and turned her around. No, it was Snape. Looking at her.

"Pull yourself together. You are no crazy and you have not gone over the edge or around the bend or any other synonym for crazy."

"It's Lucius Malfoy. In plaid trousers. Golfing. With a Viscountess," she answered seriously.

"I know. I should have told you beforehand, even though Draco could have mentioned his father's new hobby, or occupation but what you see is real and you're not crazy," he said calmly. "He found a book of mine which deals with the effects of inbreeding in pureblood society and decided that with his two sisters-in-law effectively crazy, he needed fresh blood in the family. Enter Viscountess Brackley or whatever her name is who is, according to him, the best age for breeding and his newly found affection for Muggle sports."

Hermione rubbed her eyes, her arms still trapped by his hands holding onto her shoulders. This was real. She had just – once more – made a complete fool out of herself. No hallucination. Reality. Stranger than fiction. "He...and...breeding...children...insa...what?"

.

Severus rolled his eyes. If she kept on going like this, he would have to slap her. And he was against slapping women. He didn't slap women. Granted, he was a little shocked to see Malfoy and his horse playing golf and having close contact outside the Manor but not so shocked as to question reality and claim to have hallucinations. But at least he had know for his new affinity – and she hadn't. And with him grasping her hand as well, she would think he was transporting her to another plane of existence. An upside-down world.

On the other hand, and he didn't quite admit it to himself, she did look rather cute, rubbing her eyes and trying to see clearly and trying to judge whether she was truly going insane. Her eyes had grown bigger and bigger and even a little fearful and he hadn't been able to hold her back when she had been close to smashing her head against the trunk of the tree.

"Look, Granger, it's simple. I know it looks strange but Draco will be able to confirm all this. As far as I know, those two, erm, rutting almost over there, Lucius Malfoy and his Viscountess have an understanding..."

"That sounds positively Austenesque," she muttered.

"Positively, yes, but that's the way it is and she, as far as I know, doesn't know he's a Wizard. It's Lucius's logic and we try not to get pulled into it too much. Otherwise you will really find yourself at the other end of sane. Understood?"

She nodded slowly, observing the scene before her. "But he...Snape, he almost killed me and plenty of others..."

"The most important thing for Malfoy is his name and the continuance of his family line. He considers Draco unstable already and he figures he needs another heir. With a Muggle woman, he gets a healthy child and apart from that a lot of money from her estate..."

She nodded eagerly, all of a sudden. "I see."

"Now you see?"

"Well, yes, I think," she frowned and he only noticed now that his hands were still holding onto her upper arms and he let them fall as if they were being burnt by the contact. She looked at him and nodded. "Yes. He pretends to be a Muggle or a Mugglelover in order to be...well, to get money. That I can understand."

"Yes," he drawled. "Now, is your little fit over?" he sneered at her, making her grimace.

"Sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"It's the plaid, I believe," his sneer morphed into a smirk and a moment later, she chuckled.

"Lucius Malfoy in plaid. Why didn't I take my camera?" she wondered aloud before she took another few steps towards the man in question and his horse.

"Because he had enough bad press to last a lifetime. Shall we then?"

She grinned, taking a deep breath. "Let's shall."

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**Extra-long chapter, extra-many reviews? (I know that I lost many people already during this story...probably because Hermione and Severus have not been intimate since Chapter 5, but I want to thank all of you who continue reading and who continue being patient. Romance is on its way. With a vengeance.**_

_**(This is the week from hell, I'm telling you (only a few hours to myself and those are interrupted by phone calls and such and I just feel like I want to sleep for three days straight). But at least now I got another appointment with that Headmistress tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, she didn't have her date book calender thingy with her when she called me so who knows? Maybe she won't show up again. Really looking forward to this then...). **_


	77. Expressives

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Expressives are those kinds of speech acts that state what the speaker feels. They express psychological states and can be statements of pleasure, pain, likes, dislikes, joy, or sorrow. As illustrated, they can be caused by something the speaker does or the hearer does, but they are about the speaker's experience:_

_a. I'm really sorry!_

_b. Congratulations!_

_c. oh, yes, great, mmmmmm, ssahhh!_

(Yule, 1996)

.

"Lucius," said Severus as soon as the two – how should he call them? Lovers? - spotted him and Granger walking towards them.

"Severus. Miss Granger," he replied, sounding honestly surprised. "What brings you here? May I introduce the Viscountess Brackley?"

Severus nodded curtly, trying to hide his smirk. This woman did look like a horse. Well, maybe it was his prejudices, the only thing his father had passed on to him, the absolute loathing of upper classes. It had absolutely no foundation in any experiences – just something Tobias Snape had preached. Every day.

"Gwendolyn," Lucius said gently and softly to her, "this is Severus Snape and, erm, Hermione Granger. Acquaintances of mine."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," the horse said, sounding very posh. She was blonde, naturally, and her nose was too long and her eyes sort of bulged and compared to Granger, she was absolutely ugly. She was tall, yes,and her limbs were long but her fingers short, there was no chin, there was a bump on her nose and her eyes were the palest blue he had ever seen. Her skin was even paler than his and she wore this absolutely horrifyingly happy smile on her face that made him cringe. Actually, it matched Lucius's absolutely horrifyingly happy smile and that made him want to vomit. Seriously – even if he should find himself, one day, in love with someone (which he doubted), or loving someone (which he doubted as well), he would never, ever, wear such a smile on his face. He doubted he even had the facial muscles required to smile like that.

Oh, and she had abnormally large feet. Or only abnormally large shoes. He had only briefly looked at the ground, then his eyes were somehow drawn to Granger next to him. Woman hadn't yet quite got her bearings back it seemed. Or she was just astonished, as he was, at the stupid, silly smiles on their faces. He should have probably prepared her – but he didn't think they'd walk upon such a display. Or even on Lucius practising golf. Otherwise, he probably would have prepared her, told her. But as he cast her a sideways glance, he could see that she pulled herself up and straight and took a deep breath.

"Lucius," she said suddenly and with a very fake smile on her face and the blonde Pureblood's eyes went wide for a moment and his own smile vanished. "Viscountess."

"Call me Gwendolyn," the horse said pleasantly. Or what she thought was pleasant.

"Hermione," Granger smiled.

"Lucius, we came for your library," he said, wanting to stop that charade and getting down to business.

"Library? Why?" the horse shook her head. "I thought your library..."

"Gwendolyn-mine, it's probably for Severus's job and you're not interested in," he paused just the tiniest second, "Linguistics."

"No, of course not," the horse laughed. Like a horse. "I couldn't believe how many books Luci had on the subject. And on medicine and he has plenty of books. You would know of course if you came here specifically for the library," she giggled stupidly. "Did you park your car up the road to save the lawn?"

"Yes," Severus said quickly. He hadn't expected Lucius (Luci? Really?) to tell that woman that he was a Wizard just yet but to go to such lengths as to completely change the covers of his books – this had to be serious. At least so serious that she had spent some time in his house.

"We didn't want to ruin the lawn," said Granger nicely. "Lucius," she put heavy emphasis on the name, "may we go into the library? Wouldn't want to impose..."

"Upon your time," finished Severus, smirking at Lucius. Granger was playing this rather well and had, obviously, quickly reacted to her shock and had pulled herself together. Lucius's shocked face at hearing her say his first name was something to think about for the wizard.

"Yes," Granger smiled sweetly, "we can find out way in, if you don't mind."

"You've been here before?" asked the horse.

"A few times. I'm friends with Lucius's son," she explained and Lucius, almost immediately, paled. Oh. Another secret...

"Son?"

"I'm his son's godfather," smirked Severus. Hiding being a wizard was just as well, hiding books was alright but hiding his own son – that wasn't on.

"I told you about him," he almost – almost – stuttered.

"No," the horse said, almost outraged.

"He doesn't live with me anymore. He lives with..."

"Me," interrupted Severus. This was fun. Lucius had made plenty of mistakes. Too many mistakes for someone who claimed to have a Slytherin mind and who had seemed to have even planned the plan to catch himself a Muggle woman. And Granger had begun seeing through those mistakes just a little earlier than he had. Had probably thought she could tip the entire thing off balance by using the first name and a rather pretty smile and had then used the son. Severus had to give it to her, for someone who had been blatantly obvious through all her time at school, she was developing some quite unobvious tactics to, well, basically humiliate him, unmasking him, showing him up. Remarkable.

"You have a son?" the horse asked again and Severus could almost have pity on her. Stupid woman hadn't realised that she had been played with so far. And she would feel even more stupid if she realised that he had so far, possibly only told her lies.

"I have a son," Malfoy sighed. "Shall we..."

"We'll just go into the library and then leave when we have what we need," interrupted Severus again. As much as he wanted to witness Lucius making a fool of himself, Granger and himself had got the ball rolling, so to speak and the rest was up to him and his horse to do. Granger looked a little angry though and he couldn't blame her for wanting to see this. She had been humiliated by Malfoy more often than he had and those two had never been friends, not even such friends as he and him had been.

But – their task was clear. They had a job to do and he had a lecture to attend to later. Besides, he did not fancy seeing a Viscountess get angry. Or any woman getting angry for that matter. Angry women were hysterical, irrational, silly and stupid. All of the things he disliked. And their voice was pitched in a way which was painful for any normal human ear.

"Son, Luci? How old is he? I know you told me you were married but you never said you had children," the horse said and he quickly took Granger's elbow and pulled her away.

"Stop," she hissed, glaring, "I want to see this."

"No, you don't," he snapped back, pulling her with him still. "This is none of your business and you should be happy to realise that you started it and that should be enough for you."

"What? Why? I didn't start it. Just...if he can give me a loony episode, I can give his bit of Viscountess stuff a bit of a loony episode..."

He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Have you forgot the purpose of our little outing?"

"No, I haven't but...do you feel sorry for him?" she asked quizzically, trying to stop walking and since his hand wouldn't move from her elbow, he had to stop also.

"No, I don't feel sorry for him," he glared at her. "Can we now find those books?"

.

It was remarkably easy to snap out of her possibly self-imposed state of shock. As soon as she realised that with the little use of his first name, she could annoy Malfoy more than anything, showing him disrespect in any way that she could in front of a Muggle who knew nothing whatsoever about magic, it had been like, well, easy. Not like riding a bike since she hadn't yet shown that kind of polite disrespect to a person before but it had been marvellous. It had made the entire shocked state, her loony episode a bit – worth it. If Snape thought he could make her feel insecure by showing her this display, he had another thing coming and she hoped that with her own display towards Malfoy, she had made that perfectly clear.

On the other hand...he hadn't seemed like he was trying to drive her insane. He had seemed almost honestly concerned about her. His eyes had been remarkably warm and kind when he had taken hold of her upper arms and had gently shaken her back into reality. He had seemed honestly – worried. Still. She wasn't going to be fooled that easily.

She had started something with Malfoy and that plain Viscountess who looked remarkably unremarkable and for a moment, she even pitied the poor woman. She had made sure that the woman knew that she had been lied to and that was something which, Hermione knew from experience, hurt.

She looked at Snape as he tried to drag her into the Manor and sighed. "Yes, let's go and find those books." Casting a last glance towards the couple, her glaring at him, her arms crossed over her chest and him, looking almost too pretty to be standing there.

"Poor thing," she muttered and felt herself pushed by the elbow again.

"What?"

"I said poor thing," repeated Hermione as they entered the house, his hand slowly falling from her elbow.

"And why would you say that?" he asked and appeared quite uninterested, almost bored, in fact.

"Seriously, she's quite plain, isn't she? And he is a pretty boy even though I suppose you have to be into his type to think he's pretty and with the plaid trousers he looks kind of idiotic but she's so plain and he's too pretty and I suppose she wondered about him and whether it was only about the money, which I suppose it is, and then she finds out, thanks to me, that he's lied to her and I suppose she would feel her trust crumbling, if there was trust and that's why I said poor thing."

"You should have thought of the consequences earlier, Granger," he grumbled.

"Yes, I suppose so but I did feel quite out of my mind, to be honest," she giggled softly. "You couldn't have warned me, I suppose."

"And spoil the fun?"

"Yeah, I see," her giggle stopped immediately and her face fell. She was only entertainment to him. Only stupid entertainment. Something to pass the time. She took a deep and silent breath and, just after looking over her shoulder to make sure there was nobody following them, she pulled the wand from her sleeve to see if there were wards around the library.

"No wards," she said voicelessly and let Snap step in. She had stood up and had tried to humiliate Malfoy and it was only entertainment to Snape. A means of transportation and entertainment. A wand in a hand that would do whatever Snape commanded. That was the sum total of what she was to him. Nothing more, nothing less. She shrugged to herself, following Snape into Malfoy's library.

"He changed the covers of the books," Snape said calmly, businesslike.

"Finite," replied she with a little wave of her wand and the books were restored to their original way. "What are we looking for?" she asked and knew that she sounded discouraged. He had been worried earlier, had seemed worried, only because she was stupid entertainment on the Janus Thickey Ward. Or the entire thing had only been in her mind. He hadn't been worried about her but maybe just about the way he was supposed to get home if she should find herself incapacitated. Or something.

She was tired and her head hurt. This crush was draining her. This wasn't the happy kind of crush. This wasn't a day-dreaming, heart-doodling kind of thing. This was hopeless and she knew it. Her shoulders felt heavy and she wanted to apparate away and wanted to run away from this entire thing. She was nothing more to him than...she was nothing to him and it made her feel small and unremarkable and stupid and self-conscious. It made her feel ugly and unworthy. It made her want to fall into a heap in the corner of her room and cry for her mummy.

But it wasn't long until they'd find the right chant, by that eliminating the death-threat that would be imminent if they used a regular curse-breaker with his wooden mallet methods (she remembered very well that any regular curse-breaking would kill him. The chant would, hopefully, cancel that) and then she could vanish from his life. That kind of evil crush would end and she could be herself again. Happy and reading and not embarrassing herself every five minutes.

"Granger, are you listening to me?" he snapped.

"I was listening," she groaned. "We're looking for, erm, Thucydides's Chants. I wasn't aware we had moved onto the Greeks but so be it," she replied, keeping her voice steady and calm and almost bored.

He rolled his eyes. "So you haven't listened. I explained, in all detail, that it was the Ancient Greek who used chants in their plays and whose priests used them. For exorcisms as well. Or what they considered that. Since we are..."

"I heard you," she snapped.

He eyed her strangely for a moment or two, then gestured towards a plushy, worn armchair. "Sit."

"No."

"Sit, you're obviously still exhausted from that loony episode as you called it and you need rest."

"I'm not," she snapped. "I'm just..."

"Yes?"

"Nothing," she shook her head. "Do you know if his books are somehow sorted? Alphabetically?"

"They're not. Never have been."

"No system whatsoever?"

"You start over there, I start here. If you come across anything on exorcisms, or curse-breaking, shrink it and put it in your pocket and you will fill the gaps later," he instructed and she couldn't help the quick curtsey she dipped with a grimace.

"Yes, master," she hissed and a split second later, he had swooped down upon her, it seemed, his hands, as before, grasping her upper arms. The shake she was given this time was harder, however and he stared intently into her eyes.

"Don't ever call me that," he spat angrily and her eyes widened in fear and understanding.

.

He found it first. It stood there, small and slim and black. The book which would, hopefully, help him get his magic back without killing him. He remembered the words well – 'remove the curse, you'll die'. But all the research and all the books he and Granger and Malfoy had consulted came to the same conclusion. The right chant, the right words and the curse could be removed without his death. Dangerous were only, according to the books, curse-breaking in the regular sense of the word was deadly. Curse-breaking with brute force would mean death.

It didn't matter, he thought as he pulled the tiny book from the shelf and crossed the room towards Granger. Woman worked her way silently through the billions of books and never took her eyes off their spines and titles.

"I have it, Granger," he said softly. Woman should have rested. She had a loony episode, as she called it, and was still, with slumped shoulders and tired-looking eyes working for his counter-curse. She should have rested and should have just sat down when he had suggested it. Instead, she had to insult him and be too stubborn.

"Oh good," she said, a sarcastic note in her voice. "Would you like me to..." she stopped and shook her head, scratching her eyebrows and rubbing her eyes.

"Would I like you to do what, Granger?" he asked.

"Nothing. Forget it. Do you need any more? I found three more that might be helpful," she said, pulling miniature books from her pockets.

"Would you shrink those too?" he handed her the few books he had collected.

Without looking at him or saying something, she pointed her wand at the books and a second later, they had vanished into her pocket as well, just in time for both of them to be rather startled by a door being wrenched open violently and then banged shut.

"You idiotic Mudblood," Lucius shouted, a blueish vein on his temple throbbing massively. "And you, Snape, what was the purpose of that?"

"Mudblood again, am I?" Granger pulled herself up to her full height, the formerly tired-looking eyes alert now.

"You know very well you are," he spat. "Get out of my house."

"Gladly," she spat back. "But you know that you're...with a Muggle?" She turned around and stomped towards the door.

"Lucius," Severus tried to soothe. "You should have told her about Draco at least."

"She doesn't know about Draco any more now than she did before you arrived."

"You obliviated her?" Granger gasped. "My God, you're..."

"Be careful, Mudblood," the blonde grew quiet and dangerous and his wand was edged out of his sleeve.

"You have no decency at all. Why don't you steal money? That would be more honest than this."

"High and mighty Miss Gryffindor," Lucius sneered. "I do not think any of this is your business."

"Draco is my friend," she said angrily.

"Out," he repeated. "And you can go with her and the books stay."

Severus wasn't sure what to say. The books were safely in Granger's pockets and they could leave. It was a simple matter of getting out of the house and telling her to apparate them away. Maybe not startle her this time with the hand-holding. But Granger had other ideas.

"You could never change. You sent Draco back so you didn't have to explain that you have a son. That makes no sense at all anyway. What's so bad about having a son? It's money again, isn't it? It's always money and power," hissed Granger. "That poor woman. Will be obliviated so often that you she will have to be happy to remember her own name by the time she's forty. You just use her like you use everyone."

"Granger," he said quickly and moved to her side. The vein on Lucius's temple grew even further and the wand twitched in his fingers. "Stop."

"No, I won't stop," she pointed her own wand at Malfoy. "What else do you do with her? Imperius her?"

"Granger, stop it," he repeated, louder this time.

.

She wasn't sure where all this anger was coming from. She knew she had no right to judge Malfoy and she knew she spoke out of turn. She knew it wasn't her place to say and she knew that he would try to hex her or curse her any moment now. Her shield was half-cast already but she still didn't know what had triggered this – the word she so hated even though it had never held any meaning for her when she had been a child? Or Snape's treatment of her? Combined with her loony episode? She didn't know.

What she did know was that she was angry at Malfoy. Angry at him for playing God and putting himself above any Muggles again. Demonstrating it by obliviating the Viscountess.

She heard Snape telling her to stop and she could see how angry Malfoy was getting. She could see it and she didn't act on it.

"What else do you do with her? Imperius her?"

Snape told her to stop again and put a hand on her arm which she shrugged off immediately. She was done being played with. She wasn't weak. She could defend herself. Unlike that poor woman.

"When she doesn't want? Do you make her? Obliviate her when she remembers? I despise you, Malfoy," she exclaimed.

"Snape get that insane girl out of my house before..."

"Before what? Before you torture the Mudblood again? Try it, Malfoy, try it. I know what it's like. It happened just over there, just a few doors away," her voice went cold and steely.

"Granger, come on," she felt herself dragged out of the room and Malfoy followed them, unaware that she had the books in her pocket.

"You will get what you deserve," she shouted over her shoulder as she felt herself being lifted up and thrown...over a shoulder.

"Snape, let me down!"

"Yes, as soon as we're out of his reach," the man who had obviously thrown her over his shoulder hissed angrily. "And as soon as we get home, you rest." He ordered. He ordered her around.

"Why?"

"Because you don't think straight," he said with difficulty, carrying her out of the house.

"Let me down. I can think straight and I can walk on my own."

"As long as you can apparate straight, that should be enough," he replied immediately and just because she had to prove that she could, she scrunched her eyes shut tight and, as he still held her, or rather had one hand on the back of her thigh and the other on her shoulder, she held onto his upper arm, and apparated. Just to prove that she could.

.

_**Thank you. **_

_**(I personally think something's wrong with his chapter but I don't know what...)**_


	78. Hierarchies

The usual disclaimers apply.

.

_There are not only syntactic hierarchies, of course, but also others, such as prosodic ones, in which utterances are seen to consist of intonation phrases, feet, syllables, onsets, rhymes and segments. Because linguistic code is hierarchically organised, linguistic theories assume that speakers' minds must incorporate 'rules' not only for relating bits of code to bits of meaning, but also for relating smaller bits to larger bits. Apart from such 'structure building' rules, the need for assuming 'structure changing' rules has arise as well, relating more superficial representations of code to assumed 'deeper' ones, which may sometimes be different._

(Ritt, 2004)

.

It had been a miracle in itself that Lucius Malfoy had not started hexing Granger straight away. She had certainly provoked him enough. She had certainly asked for it and if he had had any other means, he would have definitely whisked her away from him quicker than throwing her, like a bloody caveman, over his shoulder. All those years and Granger still seemed to underestimate Malfoy. The Crucio had basically been on his lips – and she hadn't seen it, she hadn't known when to stop. He had to get her out even though – she truly had the gall and he had to give her that. Not a lot of people would be able to stand up to Malfoy and his cold grey eyes and his threats like that. He had to take her out – and if only because he did not want to be caught in the crossfire (without a wand).

What other choice did he have but to carry her out? He could have pulled her out by the hair. Or could have run himself and let her be tortured but that wouldn't have been right. He was no coward. Talking with the two of them would have been out of the question – this way he did not have to take sides and Lucius would, sooner or later, come to get his books back and he did not want to be hit with something then. Getting her away from him had been his only, and incidentally, best choice. A caveman he was not but at least that way, he had a nice view of the bum in the jeans. And that was a view not to be underestimated. He smirked.

No, he would have never considered throwing a woman over his shoulder but doing it now – it had it's advantages. Maybe...in due time...with the right woman...he would have to consider it.

A second later, he stared into the astonished face of his godson and Aideen, pulling apart rapidly, both their lips swollen from, possibly, prolonged snogging.

"Erm," Aideen said, frowning.

"Let me down, Snape!" Granger shrieked and memorising how her bum looked and how her thigh felt, he let her drop – well – on her feet. At least she had feet. And he had feet. They both had apparently everything they had left behind at the Manor. Angrily apparating seemed to work for her. And well. Her hair was wild and her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were the colour of pink roses. She glared and tried to scowl. "How dare you..."

He shook his head and rolled his eyes and turned on his heel. She had apparated both of them into Eleanor's garden and he had done what was right, had brought her to safety, or had made sure that she could bring herself to safety and as he saw her glaring at him like this – not an ounce of gratitude in her – he knew he had to go. He didn't need the stepladder but jumped completely over the wall that separated his and Eleanor's garden and unlocked his back door, stepped in and locked it from the inside.

It wasn't right. All his life...he shook his head resolutely. It made no sense to think about the past and it made no sense to try and reduce Granger to bum and thighs. She had stood up to Malfoy, a man plenty of people would have been willing to kneel before. Of course it had been utter insanity and it had been wrong of her. She had provoked him and had judged him and had thrown things at his head which hadn't been hers to say. She had spoken out of turn – but she had spoken. She had lost her Slytherin tactics somewhere along the way and had resorted to sanctimonious Gryffindorish self-righteousness and judgement. It was brave, yes, but completely not her place to say.

For all that it was worth, Severus had learned one thing during their little outing: Hermione Granger could look quite adorable when angry. And her thighs felt as firm as he remembered.

.

"What was that?" asked Draco and Hermione felt like crumbling to the ground. She felt herself staggering and shaking and she was completely dizzy and she had to hold on to the wall that Snape had jumped over not five seconds ago for balance.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" she muttered to herself. Had she really just...She hadn't known when to stop. Hadn't known when it had been enough and she insulted a man whose books she had desperately needed, had shouted at the man she had a crush on and had apparated angrily. She was losing her grip. Reality was slipping by. None of this was happening. None of this was happening at all. A dream. A wicked, weird, unwelcome dream. She was dreaming. She was back at Hogwarts, or back with her parents, or back at Grimmauld Place, in either one of those beds, safely, dreaming. Her subconscious making all this up.

"Hermione?" someone asked, a hand on her shoulder.

"What?" she asked, not allowing herself to turn her head. She would get dizzy again.

"What's going on?" the same voice, Aideen's?, asked gently. "Draco? What's happening to her?"

"I have no idea," she heard another voice. "Fever?"

"She's not hot," a hand was on her forehead.

"Let me go," she said steadily, not taking her eyes off the wall. "I'm..."

"Get your grandmother," someone said and she felt bile rising in her throat and her stomach clenched. The rational part of her brain wondered whether she had eaten something which was obviously disagreeing with her but she couldn't come up with anything. She didn't have any breakfast and the night before, she only had a biscuit because Harry and Ron had already eaten, and that lunch before...she couldn't remember.

"Hermione?" a third voice sounded close to her ear. "What's happened?"

"Severus had her over his shoulder and they just popped up here."

"I think Granger apparated herself and Uncle Severus."

"Can you check if there are any curses, Draco?"

"Sure, Mrs Callaghan." There was a pause and a tingling and she had to keep her eyes on the wall. Something was wrong with her stomach and her head. And had she really just told Malfoy that he was, more or less, a bastard? Had she insulted Snape? She felt herself pulled away from the wall and a bit of stomach-clenching and bile-rising later, she was pressed against a chest which smelled like fresh, warm bread and lavender and she allowed herself to close her eyes. "Hermione, can you tell me what happened?" she heard in a soft Irish lilt, right next to her ear.

"I insulted Malfoy and I insulted Snape," she explained, pushing the bitter, disgusting taste of bile back down. "And..."

She hadn't had lunch the day before. Or breakfast. She had worked straight through. She hadn't had so much as a normal meal since...her head grew dizzy again and her stomach cramped painfully. She hadn't eaten in days. No decent meal in days. The rational part of her brain told her that it was no miracle that she had insulted Malfoy and Snape, that she thought she was absolutely going bonkers. It was no miracle at all.

"I know what's wrong with me," she said through clenched teeth and the cosy smell of fresh bread made her stomach tighten painfully and a bit of bile rise again.

"What's wrong with you, flower?" the Irish lilt – and she knew it was Mrs Callaghan – asked gently.

"I haven't eaten in two days," she said as clearly as she could.

"And you apparated on an empty stomach? From London up here and from here to where exactly and from where exactly to here again?" she heard another voice. "Did you even read any books on apparation? It will make you nauseous and irrational and it drains your bloody energy. Are you quite insane?"

"And I apparated to Cornwall and back twice last night," she said shakily. "I forgot, I forgot. I didn't remember to eat this morning. I had to come here."

"Aideen, there's some leftover stew from last night. Put that in the microwave. Draco, run down to the shop and get some bread and then go over to Severus's and ask if he knows what's best in that case," she heard Mrs Callaghan again but that smell of bread was better now. Once you got used to it, it was good. She remembered faintly – apparating on an empty stomach wasn't the best idea but manageable. Not a problem. But apparating those kinds of distances on an empty stomach...It would make her behave weirdly.

She heard nothing after that, only the gentle beating of Mrs Callaghan's heart, steady and strong and her feet were somehow moving and something made her sit down and someone put a biscuit in her hand and she chewed on it greedily, sugar and sweetness streaming back into her body.

.

"Uncle Severus!" Draco had the fresh bread in his hand, and was knocking on the door with the other. Well, he was banging really. "It's a bloody emergency, open the bloody door!" Unbelievable. Granger with all the books that she read not knowing, or forgetting that apparating on an empty stomach could be terribly draining (not that he suggested anyone apparated with a too full stomach either...) and possibly dangerous. No wonder she would be thinking she was going insane.

"For fuck's sake, Severus Snape, open this fucking door!" he shouted again and barely a second later, his disgruntled godfather opened the door.

"I'm sure the rest of this town doesn't know that you want to be let in," he sneered.

"I don't want to be let in," he retorted quickly and dangled the bread in front of his nose. "Did you know that Hermione hasn't eaten in two days?"

His godfather frowned and he took the key from the little shelf he kept it on and grabbed the bread. He mumbled something which sounded remarkably like 'Do you think I would have let her apparate if I had known?' but Draco couldn't be sure.

"Where did you go incidentally?" he asked loudly.

"A library," Severus replied immediately and shut his front door. "She will need a lot of protein and..."

"Eleanor has leftover stew and I just bought bread. In record time, might I add," he smirked.

"Accio?"

"Yes, but I made sure to send some money there as well," he smiled happily and his godfather grimaced. "Where did you go?"

"To a library. I already said so," Severus said, striding as quickly as he could without running (or that way it looked to Draco) towards Mrs Callaghan's house.

"And where is that library?"

"South," he only said.

It dawned on Draco. It was clear. It was so clear. "Was she there?" he asked only, keeping up with the older man.

"Yes, she was. But she..."

"Doesn't know anything about me. I know. Father thought it would be better," he smiled ruefully. "I'm now officially the bad one. It doesn't matter though, does it? You brought me back here."

"It's not right and it does matter," he said sternly, waiting in front of Mrs Callaghan's door. "Key?"

"I didn't take one with me. You have to ring, sorry," he replied, shrugging. "It really doesn't matter. This is my father, Severus. He didn't want to marry my mother and he didn't want to have me and when I was there, he was..."

"He was happy to have you," Severus said angrily. "He..."

"He thinks I'm insane and maybe I am but it doesn't matter, it really doesn't. I'm just glad you made me get...well, I'm glad you kidnapped me. Did you at least find a book that could help?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Your father..."

"I don't want to talk about my father, Uncle Severus. It's okay, it really is."

The older man looked at him with a curious expression on his face, and if Draco hadn't known better, he would have thought that he was Legilimencying him but no, he just studied him and then a hand fell hard on his shoulder and fingers squeezed. He couldn't remember his godfather ever doing that. Or at least not in a long, long time. He nodded briefly and then stared at the door. "You could make the same noise you did in front of my house," said he.

"I could but Merlin knows how Granger would react."

In reaction, he only arched his eyebrows and whatever he could have possibly said was interrupted by Aideen as she opened the door.

"Thank God you're here," she breathed and kissed him briefly on the lips before she pulled his godfather inside. "She won't eat. She just sits there and stares at the stew."

"Have you tried feeding her?" he asked immediately.

"Feeding her? No, she's..."

He watched as his godfather strode away, quickly, and if he had worn robes Draco would have bet all of his money that they would have billowed, too.

"What's wrong with her, love?" asked Aideen, taking his hand.

"It's...apparating, remember when I told you about it?"

She nodded.

"It basically uses up a lot of energy. It's like running for a mile. You need nutrition. And if you don't eat at all, you will begin to feel unwell and you will..."

"Be weird. Her blood sugar will be low, she will be hypoglycaemic**.** And that's..."

"The way she acted," Aideen nodded. "You won't apparate without food?"

"No, he won't," he heard his godfather just before he was thrown a bit of bread. "Go and fetch those imbeciles she lives with."

"What? Why? I don't want to see Potter or Weasley," he argued immediately."

"Go, Draco. Now. Do you think I want her here all day long?"

Rolling his eyes, he embraced his girlfriend. "I will be back in a few minutes, I hope," he said, stuffing the piece of bread in his pocket and rolling his eyes again before he walked around the corner and apparated away.

.

Idiotic woman. Who was he, her babysitter? And there he had thought that she had shown extraordinarily stupid bravado when she had chucked those words at Malfoy's head but in that situation, who knew if she had meant to say them? She had thought them for sure, but saying them out loud was maybe due to her lack of nutrition. Stupid girl. She should have known better.

And stupid him for making her apparate him without making sure she had eaten. She was apparating enough as it was, probably. Every day, or every weekday from London to York and back took it's toll, he knew. He remembered. And he knew the advantages of a pumpkin pasty shoved in a pocket or even a licorice wand. He remembered.

She seemed like the type of person who would simply forget to eat. He knew what that was like. Being so hard working, and having so little time to think about anything else, food became one of the most unimportant things imaginable.

He felt a stirring in what other people considered to be their conscience. Not aware that he had one left, it came as a surprise to feel – somehow – guilty. He was the one she worked for and he had commanded her to apparate him. He should have at least offered her a cup of tea.

Shaking his head to himself, he went quickly into the living room, stumbled, almost, on Granger as she sat on the table he had ate at so often, a plate of steaming stew in front of her and Eleanor's arm around her back, talking softly to her. He watched as Granger slowly lifted a spoon up to her lips and chewed viciously.

"Severus," Eleanor said softly without removing her arm from around Granger.

He wasn't sure what he should say. On the one hand, he felt like reprimanding her, on the other hand, he knew that he was, at least partially to blame. He had made her apparate from London to Manchester and from Manchester to Malfoy Manor.

"Aideen said she didn't eat," it came blurting out of his mouth.

"I could persuade her," Eleanor replied with a small smile directed at Granger. "And it's good, isn't it?"

"Very good," Granger said in between two bites.

"Bread," was all he could answer to that and put the loaf on the table before he sat down himself.

"Where did you go then?" asked Eleanor, stroking broad circles on Granger's back.

"Draco's father," hissed Hermione.

"Why?"

"Books," said Granger, sounding more rational than she had all day.

"On the..." Eleanor trailed off.

"Yes, and it would have all been fine if Granger had remembered to eat beforehand and would not have actually insulted the owner of those books," snapped he.

"He deserved it. Obliviating a poor Muggle. He can basically rape her and she won't even remember. He can make her do disgusting things and she won't remember," he said, with her mouth full, "and," she swallowed, "he can't just decide what he wants her to forget."

"And you told him that, Miss Granger?" asked Eleanor.

"Yes," she nodded.

"And while she might have been correct, it wasn't hers to state it," stated Severus, "while stealing his books."

"Oh," Granger said slowly. "I shouldn't have, eh? But someone had to tell him. Poor Draco," she fumbled with the pocket of her jeans and a second and a wave of her wand later, the spoon in the stew, the books lay, full sized on the table.

"Poor Draco? Why?" Aideen had come into the living room and stared at Granger curiously.

"His father decided not to tell his new girlfriend about him. And that's not right," said Granger.

Aideen shrugged. "Why not? Draco doesn't want anything to do with him anyway. And he hurt Gran."

Severus arched his eyebrows. Women, most women at least, had a memory which lasted longer than that of an elephant. Most women were better grudge-holders than he could ever strive to be and he had excelled at grudge-holding. Couldn't compete with any woman. But it was interesting. So Granger had wanted to say it. She hadn't done it under the effects of her low blood-sugar. She hadn't done it because she had been irrational but because she had wanted to say it. Or maybe, she still didn't have enough food inside of her.

"You have no right to judge other people, Miss Granger," scolded Eleanor.

"But it's wrong what he does," said Granger.

"You wouldn't want to be told that your decisions are wrong by basically a stranger. Who is quite a few years younger than yourself. Imagine a ten-year-old coming up to you and telling you that you're stupid for doing this and that when you're convinced of it..." Aideen argued.

"I wouldn't take a ten-year-old seriously."

"Are you being difficult on purpose?" Severus couldn't stop himself from commenting.

"No, I see the point but nobody is telling him anything. He claims he has no son and he has Draco. It's just not right. It's not right."

"Of course it's not right, Miss Granger, but not your place to say," Eleanor rubbed her back. "Eat, girl, it's getting cold."

Granger nodded slowly – Eleanor's hand on one's back could have that effect – and spooned some more stew, dipping bread into it as well and looked at him. This time, it was easy to read her.

"He was close to using the Cruciatus Curse on you, Granger. It's quite a loathsome sight if someone is under it and you have to watch and I had, and have, no intention of seeing it again. I doubt you would have taken kindly to me dragging you out by the hair," he smirked.

"I usually know when to shut up," she muttered.

"No, you don't," Aideen said softly and sighed. "Gran, will you tell me when Draco returns?"

He missed Eleanor's possible nod and looked at Granger who was, well, a sight to behold. Her mouth stood wide open and the spoon hovered in mid-air, the bread being utterly soaked in the stew.

"Close the mouth. You know when to run but you don't know when to shut up," he said – almost gleefully.

"I think I'm going home now," she said quietly.

"You will finish that," Eleanor was quick to reply and Severus scowled.

"You will finish that and you will definitely not apparate on your own again today," he arched his eyebrows.

"But I..."

"It's hard to hear the truth but honesty is something you should value and appreciate more than anything," he interrupted.

Granger searched him with her eyes, tried to see into his eyes, tried to find the truth of what he had said, possibly, and tried to find a way to answer this. After long moments of silence, or almost silence since he could hear how Eleanor rubbed her back, she merely nodded. Just nodded and bent her head and kept on eating as Eleanor smiled almost motherly at him and he kind of let his lips twitch in response.

.

He scowled. He had learned to scowl from his godfather and it was put to good use now. Seriously – those two just annoyed the hell out of him sometimes. There they were, Weasley with a chicken wing or something in his hand, the lower half of his face completely greasy from the amount of food he had devoured (and was still devouring) and Potter with his godson in his arms, and the godson holding a bit of chicken in his chubby fingers himself.

"Hello," he said as kindly as he could, which wasn't very kindly.

"Malfoy?" Weasley spoke through about a pound of chicken in his mouth.

"Seriously, you gluttons. You go and eat all the time probably and you let Granger..." he trailed off. Let them wonder.

"What's with Hermione?" Potter was the first to react and his eyes were almost fearful.

"She isn't well and you have to come," he replied immediately.

"Where?" asked the Weasel having swallowed.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Manchester," he stated boredly.

"What's she...what happened?"

"If you could ward this place, or maybe just close the door, I will take you both. Even if you do have to touch me," he rolled his eyes once more and for good measure, he let his eyebrows shoot to unknown heights.

"What's wrong with Hermione?"

"She isn't well and you need to bring her home," he shrugged. "Now, would you, please, I don't have forever and I only came to fetch you."

"To Snape's house?" asked Potter suspiciously, his grasp on his godson tightening. Oh – that was very interesting. They, or at least Potter, did not trust him.

"The house next door, but yes, basically to my godfather's house," he answered shortly. "If you would move your behinds now? She needs your help."

"I know where it is," Potter said to Weasley, then looked at him again. "I will need a second to get my godson settled with the house elf and I will apparate on my own." There was an icy look in his eyes and Draco wasn't sure whether he truly liked the suspicion. He had to admit that he was a little concerned about Granger. Just a little, mind, and he knew she would be alright as soon as she had some food inside of her but still. Those two dimwitted idiots still thought he would use something like that, someone like Granger, as a ploy. Why? He hadn't done anything truly evil in at least...never. At least not if you didn't count the way he had felt up Aideen's thigh or how he had used to Confound his former customers. Or the...Vanishing Cabinet. But apart from that...still. It was not matter now. As long as they came and took Granger home. If that was what his godfather wished. Severus could be so dense, really. Here he had a brilliant opportunity to get closer to her, to talk to her, and he was pushing her back home with those two gluttons who could eat probably twenty-four hours, seven days a week but couldn't make sure that their flatmate ate enough to sustain herself. He huffed.

"Fine," he shrugged. "I'll see you there then. Soon, otherwise..." he didn't finish his sentence but merely apparated away.

.

She felt better. She couldn't be sure whether it was the stew alone or if the hand on her back, rubbing constant circles on her back had something to do with it. It was so – motherly. And her own mother...better not thinking about that now, she thought. It was bad enough that they were in Australia. It was bad enough that they didn't seem to have any kind of connection anymore since...and that emails were the only way of communication and that she hadn't seen them in a while and that she couldn't even remember when her own mother had last rubbed her back like that.

Or maybe it was the fact that Snape had seemed quite concerned again. That he watched as she ate and told her the truth.

Now, with her stomach not clenching anymore and the bile where it belonged and her head a little clearer, she knew she had, once more, made of a fool of herself. But someone had to tell Malfoy that it was wrong what he was doing. And someone had to inform that poor Muggle woman. It wasn't right – end of story. And if nobody was there to tell him how wrong it was...yes, she was young and inexperienced in such things and she should have at least a little bit of respect for Malfoy (or not) and it was maybe wrong to jump at him like this with her accusations but deep inside, she knew that it hadn't been the lack of food combined with the apparating that had made her do it. She had wanted to tell him that it was wrong. Maybe she had misjudged when to stop. Had seen the curse almost coming towards her and hadn't been able to stop herself. Was that what he wanted to tell her?

She looked at him and his eyes almost seemed soft and those eyes almost seemed to smile at her. She couldn't help herself. In that moment, her stomach did a little somersault and her heart leapt into her throat and beat merrily, quickly. Those were the eyes she had wanted to see – even if she hadn't know that she did. She bit the inside of her lip. This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all. She had to close her eyes. She couldn't look into his anymore.

She tried to take a deep breath and tried to shove her heart back into her chest where it belonged, tried to soothe her stomach and it did help to look away, at the table cloth and at the empty plate of stew and at the way Mrs Callaghan rubbed circles on her back still. It was better than seeing those eyes that seemed concerned and worried and gentle and soft and...it would lead her nowhere.

Maybe, she thought, she should just sleep with Ron. Try and be together with Ron. Or Harry. Or anyone she could pick at the street. This was going nowhere. Even if his eyes looked so gentle and kind. Even if he almost smiled with his eyes.

"Where is she?" there was a rather girlish shriek from the side of the garden and she looked up, puzzled. This sounded like...Harry.

"Harry?" she asked stupidly.

"I told you you wouldn't apparate today," Snape said and her eyes were immediately drawn to him again.

"But..."

He said nothing but instead stood up from where he had sat across from her and pulled himself up to full height. He did look rather impressive. Tall and lean and...no. This was Snape. Snape wasn't handsome even if her conceited eyes thought so. He wasn't. He shouldn't be.

"What's wrong with Hermione?" she heard another voice which sounded remarkably like Ron's. Her eyes went wide.

"Both of them?" she asked voicelessly.

Snape only looked at her with arched eyebrows and shrugged ever so slightly. He seemed almost amused when her two boys stumbled into Mrs Callaghan's living room.

"Hermione!" they both near-shouted at the sight of her.

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley," Snape said and he sounded very much like a former Potions Master.

"Snape, erm, sir," Harry stuttered.

"Do any of you dunderheads know what happens when you apparate long distances on an empty stomach? A very empty stomach? Very long distances? Often? Do you?"

The boys were silent and they both looked on the ground, neither of them daring to look into his eyes. He was very much like a teacher right now. For her? Was he doing this for her? For her? Was he scolding them for her?

"Snape, I..."

"Do you?" his voice became deadly.

"Hermione?" Ron asked. "Are you alright?" He tried to side-step Snape, tried to reach her side but Snape held him back and pushed him back next to Harry, his finger poking first Ron's chest, then Harry's.

"In the future," he seemed to grow even more and seemed taller and more impressive and terrible and wonderful, "you will make sure Miss Granger gets a decent breakfast before she even thinks about apparating somewhere. You will make sure she has at least three decent meals a day. Do I make myself clear?"

It wasn't even a second before both her boys nodded and even Mrs Callaghan had stopped rubbing her back.

"Yes, sir," Harry mumbled even.

"Take her home then," Snape said. "And feed her."

.

Ron was confused and so was Harry and it was quite possible that nobody who witnessed the scene, not Draco, not Mrs Callaghan, not Hermione and definitely not Snape, missed the shocked glances that passed between those two.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(I'm – naturally – scared shitless about beginning the teaching job on Monday. I have absolutely no idea what to do and I know rationally that I can teach but I'm afraid I'm rather irrational. This fact is responsible for the fact that you got an overly long chapter this time because I just don't want to think about Monday...). **_


	79. Declarations

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Declarations are those kinds of speech acts that change the world via their utterance. As the example in [15] illustrate, the speaker as to have a special institutional role, in a specific context, in order to perform a declaration appropriately. _

_a. Priest: I now pronounce you husband and wife. _

_b. Referee: You're out!_

_c. Jury Foreman: We find the defendant guilty. _

_In using a declaration, the speaker changes the world via words. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

Hermione's door had barely closed, a plate of chicken wings having gone with her, when Harry, gasped loudly.

"Seriously?"

"I know," Ron said, watching Kreacher as Kreacher watched Teddy playing on the floor. "It can't be but he really looked worried. And I felt like a bloody firstie."

"Me too," Harry shook his head. "But he was really concerned about Hermione, wasn't he?"

"He definitely was. Mind you, I haven't seen him since...you know...and he could have changed but that worried? Giving us a lecture about...seriously? Bloody hell."

"Bloody hell indeed. Even though..."

"What?" asked Ron, eyeing the remaining chicken wings.

"I mean, if he's into Hermione, he's sort of not into my mother anymore, right?"

"Or he could still be...that's just...yuck. Really."

"I know but if he's with Hermione, I don't have to think that he could have been my dad," Harry shuddered.

"But he will lecture us even more."

Harry shook his head, grinning. "No, he won't. Just think, if they're together, and something happens to Hermione, we can immediately blame him."

"Because he...as the boyfriend – and I use that term loosely – has to take care of her. It's the job of the boyfriend."

"Using the term loosely," grinned Harry, "But yep, that's exactly what I've been thinking."

"But Hermione doesn't see it. Or does she?"

"She didn't even say good bye to him. Only sort of...nodded."

"Women are weird," Ron shook his head, snatching a chicken wing up from the plate.

"Hell yes," Harry groaned.

"What? Tina not up to..."

"Tina is...history," he said, "But that's beside the point. We were discussing Snape and Hermione."

"The way I see it," replied Ron, pensively, "is that Hermione is unhappy at the moment. I mean she leaves the house before we even get up and she comes home when we're almost in bed. And she works hard for Snape and with someone who has a crush, she didn't cling to him at all."

"So you think she was making fun of us? With the crush?"

Ron shook his head and bit a piece off the chicken wing. "No. Did you know she was, erm, you know, into me?"

"Sort of but it wasn't that obvious."

"Exactly. She's trying to hide and because she knows that we know, but he doesn't know, she would act coldly. Otherwise she'd think we'd probably say something weird and embarrassing and she can't want that..."

"So she really has a crush but thinks that he doesn't want her? But it was bloody obvious that he was concerned."

"He was, but we are concerned about Hermione and we don't...at least I don't. Do you?"

"Hell no, that'd be weird."

Ron shrugged. "See? But it would be weird, having him around the house..."

"On the other hand, she would not annoy us and she would be busy with other things and we wouldn't have to watch how she eats."

"Yeah," Ron replied. "But what do we do? Go to Snape and tell him that Hermione's in love with him?" he pulled a face.

"Not if you value your life. We just wait and Malfoy seems reasonable enough. If she gets worse, we let him do the dirty work," Harry smirked and took the last chicken wing from the plate.

.

Sod it. Sod it. Sod it.

No matter what, no matter how anyone could possibly construe this situation, no matter from which angle anyone could look at it – he had been worried about her and he had made sure that not only she knew – but her bloody friends as well.

How could he have been so stupid to tell Potter and Weasley to take better care of her? He wasn't even sure why he had done it – it had just seemed to be the right thing to do. Berate them for not caring enough about their friend.

And him – caring more about their friend than them.

"Oh hell," he said softly to himself. He hadn't meant to. He hadn't meant to run over there so quickly. And there was no reason. It wasn't as if he was in love with Granger and while he wasn't sure what being in love should have felt like, he was very sure that this wasn't what it was supposed to feel like.

Only because he didn't want to lose his means of quick transport and a quick mind, a willing mind to find a way for him to get his magic back, only because he had been scared for a moment when he had seen her sitting for forlornly at the table in Eleanor's house and only because he had been brewing a potion for her in his head, didn't mean that he was in love with her. He was quite sure that that would have called for butterflies in his stomach. Or at least something like butterflies in his stomach.

He let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling in his bathroom, the water beating down at him, the soap and bottle of shampoo for a moment forgotten. Maybe, he did care for her. It was, he had learned, okay to care for people.

These days, people you cared for weren't killed five minutes later after admitting you cared for them. These days, people you cared for weren't a liability or a danger. These days, it was okay to care. At least about Eleanor and Draco and Eleanor. Why shouldn't it be okay to care for Granger? She had helped him when he had needed help and thinking back, she had been the one, hadn't she, to camp outside his door to tell him that he should not hire a curse-breaker because he'd die. Hadn't she been the one to come to this house a few days to see if he was doing alright? To tell him that they were working on getting that verdict changed? Hadn't she been a major factor in the fact that he had a letter from the Ministry of Magic, guaranteeing him the free use of his magic and a wand and the return to the Wizarding World should they succeed in restoring his magic?

Well – actually, he wasn't sure who the driving force behind that could have been. Her or Weasley or Potter or even Malfoy. He didn't know. But she, and that was for sure...erm, well, yes.

Damnit, she seemed to care. She seemed to deeply care about him. Why else would she just not go to a lecture to apparate him to Malfoy Manor (Weasley, the idiot had let that one slip)? Why else would she spent her entire free time trying to find a way for him to get his magic back? And why hadn't she even considered whether she wanted to apparate him? Why had she emailed back almost immediately?

Severus Snape's logical mind was putting together a sort of chain of circumstantial evidence.

She had been the first to see him there in Spinner's End.

She had been the first to inform him that he was easily in mortal danger should he try and break the curse too heavy handedly.

She had come to see him more often than anyone else.

She had sought out Draco to work on the counter-curse and the chant.

She had twice gone to Malfoy Manor even if she was deadly afraid.

She had gone without food for him and for his...

It was too much. It was simply too much and Severus had to focus hard not to sink to his knees. Nobody. Nobody. Nobody ever had done so much for him.

Most of it was misdirected. Most of it had been wrong. But nobody, apart from Eleanor, had done so much for him, for his own sake. She had no agenda – she couldn't have. He doubted she would get a medal or a nice sum of money if she got him back into the Wizarding World. Probably quite on the contrary. She did this – all of this – for him.

The thought was too much and blindly, Severus grabbed for the shampoo bottle and viciously, washed his hair.

.

Determined, Hermione pulled the book she had – _accidentally_ – forgot to leave at Mrs Callaghan's house from her pocket and spelled it back to normal size.

There it was. There was her key to getting rid of her crush. She had never been as certain as then. She would find the way to chant in that book. Hadn't Snape been adamant on finding this book and this book only? Hadn't he been so sure that the answer was there? Hadn't he said that the Greek was the answer?

Careful that her fingers were clean from the greasy chicken wings she had just devoured, she opened Thucydides's Chants. She needed an answer.

That concerned, worried look on his face had almost been too much to bear. For a brief second, hope had flared up again, it had almost been a blazing fire when he had berated Ron and Harry like some first years but when he hadn't even nodded back at her nod good bye, the fire of hope had died again. Completely. An entire fire extinguisher emptied over a little, tiny tea light. Something like that anyway.

And the sooner she could forget that idiotic crush, the sooner she could move on. It was so stupid and it hurt and she couldn't breathe properly when she thought about the way he had looked at her. The way his hands...and how he had carried her and his eyes and his eyebrows and his posture...

"Stop it, Granger," she told herself firmly. "You're not fifteen anymore."

She nodded to herself in reply. On the other hand...it wasn't like it had been with Ron. With Ron it had been long-winded and steadily rising and more and more butterflies in her stomach when she had seen him. Complete agony when he had been with Lavender and almost bliss when he hadn't been with her anymore. Then a sort of numbness, anger when he had taken off in the Forest of Dean, then utter relief when she had felt that he had in the end, understood her and her cause with the elves and then...well, the end of the shortest relationship in history was actually history.

With Victor – that had been admiration on his part and a sort of overwhelmed feeling inside of her that a bloke who had myriads of girls following him could be possibly interested in her. No butterflies.

With Snape? No butterflies. Just the inexplicable urge to be near and the constant wish to touch him and the overwhelming need to see him happy and content.

"You're sick," she told herself, just before she tried to clear her head and tried to delve into the book. Tried to focus. Tried to do the sensible thing.

.

Thucydides's Chants was missing. It was missing. She must have...oh, the little...chit. She must have either forgot to enlarge it with the rest, to put it on the table as she had done with the others, or, more likely, she had done it on purpose. Wanted to do this on her own, have a look at it on her own first.

He growled. Of course she would. But why? Why? Why? Did she care that much about him?

He scratched his head as he thumbed through an utterly useless book. Why would she? He had never been nice to her. He had almost strangled her the time she had come to see him to tell him about the deadly consequences. And he had wanted to strangle her too.

But Granger was...insufferable. And too curious for her own good. And too good for her own good. And...

He leant back in his chair and stared into the fire. Life with Granger would be – interesting. Life with someone who obviously seemed to care would be – a novelty. And with her firm thighs...he should just stop.

Angering her, annoying her, belittling her, that was what he did best, that was what he could do. Being nice had only led to a loony episode and an apparition which had almost gone wrong due to her low blood sugar. Angering her and annoying her had led them to where they were now. Working on the counter-curse together. That was what he wanted. That was what she wanted. Stilling her thirst for knowledge.

Ah – that was it.

She didn't care about him. She wanted to find the counter-curse for the sake of finding the counter-curse. Of course. She wasn't interested in him, only in the knowledge. There was nothing in it for her – but she wasn't a Slytherin. She did this only for the knowledge. To know that she knew more than anyone else, before anyone else did.

His face slowly fell into a familiar smirk.

If that was the case, his way to proceed was simple. Rain on her bloody parade. Piss on it. Do what he did best. Anger people. Tell them they were worthless.

Of course she wasn't interested in him or in his being a wizard. She wanted to know and she wanted to be the first to know and she wanted to tell the world that she knew.

He stood up and with steady hands, he found his phone and the little phonebook which he thought would come in handy one day and with almost steady fingers, he punched Granger's number into his phone.

.

It was utterly ridiculous. She knew it was. She was bloody chanting at a mirror. She was chanting at herself and it couldn't even be described as a chant really. It sounded more like screeching to her ears. Painful screeches. Lavender-Brown-Won-Won-screeches.

Still, if they did the trick, she wouldn't complain.

And they were most certainly described to sound like this – and she had practised. With the words that Draco and her had figured out would work. In front of her mirror. Her hair too wild, her mascara which she had applied that morning because, well, she had met Snape, rubbed off her eyelashes and surrounding her eyes and her lips blood-red from biting on them the entire time. The chant went well, the wording was perfect but then there had been this little, tiny sentence at the end of Thucydides's Chants.

No chant will ever work if the intent is absent.

Intent. Well, what was her intent? What did she want with it?

Wasn't the little romantic, long-thought dead, girl in herself wishing for the fact that Snape recognised her brilliance and would be, immediately so grateful that he couldn't help but fall into her open arms? Of course the logical part of her brain could still tell her that she only wanted to get away from him, that she wanted to make sure she didn't feel compelled to make him...whole again? To see him smile and laugh and wave his wand and cut an impressive figure with his leather jacket and a wand? Show him how to heal the wounds inflicted by Sectumsepra? Asking question after question about potions and mathematical equations used in potions?

She looked utterly ridiculous practising the chant.

Intent. Well, she wanted him to have his magic back. Why she wanted that, didn't truly matter – did it?

Hermione took a deep breath before she could start another round of her chanted screeching when she heard her mobile phone ringing. Faintly. Somewhere in her room and she considered for a moment to let it ring but her curiosity won out and she found it in her bed, next to her pillow (why was it there? She didn't know) and miraculously, it still rang.

"Hello?"

"Nice of you to deem to answer your phone," a silken, soft, steely voice came from the other end, almost undiluted from the bad connection.

"Snape?"

"Did you take the book?" the voice – well, Snape – replied instead.

"What book?" she asked innocently, staring guiltily at the book she had not enlarged for him but had taken instead. He couldn't try it anyway and he couldn't be the one who would be screeching, well, chanting, at him. She would be. Or Draco.

"You know what book I'm talking about, Granger. Do you have it or is it still at the Manor?"

"It's not at the Manor," she said, blushing.

She heard a sigh, then a groan. "So?"

"So what?" she asked and when there was another groan from the other side – a groan which, by the way, caused her skin to break out in goose pimples (not that she would admit to that. Ever), she chuckled and tried to sound honest with her chuckle. "Ah, you mean is there something of significance in the book?"

"Yes," he seemed to ground out between clenched teeth.

She smirked. He was impatient. And he wanted to know, so instead of answering straight away, she begun her chant. Screech. Without the words. She didn't want to trigger anything. It was more like humming to the screech. The other end of the line was very – silent. No complaining about her screech (and she tried to listen closely), no berating comment, not even a breath could be heard. Nothing. Not even the bad connection made itself known. Nothing. Just silent.

She stopped screeching immediately. "Snape? Are you still there?"

There was another short pause, then. "Yes, Granger, I'm still here."

"I think that's it," she said, a little proudly. "You were right with the book. He described it perfectly. Is it really a 'dark' book?"

Another pause. "What?"

"A dark book? Is it?"

"I think," Snape replied, pausing between his words, seemed to think, seemed too lost to say something. "I'd rather be a Muggle than to be screeched at like that, Granger."

"What?" she cried.

"A joke, Granger, a joke," he said and then there was a click and suddenly, he was gone from the line. Had hung up on her.

.

_**Thank you. **_

_**(A little shorter, I know but I hope it's still satisfactory. I needed to write and this was all I could manage. I'm seriously insomniac and have trouble at my till-job and right now, I just want to go to bed, pull all the blankets in the world over my head and just forget that I have things to do...). **_

_**Oh, yes, there is a poll in my profile. Please vote. Thank you. **_


	80. Directives

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**For wandamarie, happy birthday!**_

_._

_Directives are those kinds of speech acts that speakers use to get someone else to do something. They express what the speaker wants. They are commands, orders, requests, suggestions, and, as illustrated below, they can be positive or negative. _

_a. Gimme a cup of coffee. Make it black. _

_b. Could you lend me a pen, please?_

_c. Don't touch that._

(Yule, 1997)

.

He waited. Being screeched at on the phone should be followed by being screeched at in real life immediately and the lifting of the curse that still lingered on him. He wasn't necessarily impatient but he just wished the waiting would stop. The anticipation.

He realised how he missed sharing things with Eleanor. Hadn't told her anything. Her disappointment would be greater than his if this didn't work out. If there was even the slightest possibility she could screech him to death, Eleanor would be devastated and she would worry more than himself. More than anyone. And truth be told, he knew that she was on his side, in his corner, no matter what, she was supporting him in every possible way, but he wasn't sure what it was she wanted for him. He didn't know whether Eleanor wanted him to be a wizard again, or not. He didn't know which and she would never tell him.

He hadn't told her about the screeching and about the fact that Granger was close. That they were close. He hadn't seen Granger since he had watched her eat stew after they had been to see Malfoy but, she had called him and had emailed and once more, he had called her. She was ready. She had said so the night before on the phone. And she had said she would be over that day.

What time that day, she hadn't said and because he wasn't impatient but because he wanted to get it over with, because he wanted to see if this had worked, because he was curious but not impatient, he had been showered and ready since about half six that morning. Hadn't eaten at all in the morning because neither of them had discussed whether it was advisable to eat, or not to eat or whether that didn't matter at all. He had only had a cup of tea and at lunchtime, his stomach had groaned and grumbled so loudly, that Eleanor had heard. Or maybe she hadn't heard and it was merely intuition that she had invited him over for a bit to eat. Because he wasn't impatient, he had eaten even though he wasn't sure whether the screeching could take place if he had. And it hadn't mattered at all because all his food seemed to be digested by the time it was half seven at night and she still hadn't shown up.

Why, he wondered, hadn't he asked her what time she would arrive? And why hadn't she been able to come see him sooner? Truth be told, he had, sort of, missed her presence. It was more tangible when they talked on the phone (she talked, he threw in witty remarks) and he could see her in front of his inner eye, talking to him. Smiling, laughing from time to time, and a second later, a stern expression on her face, a curl wrapped around her finger or that finger scratching her eyebrow the way she did when she thought, her firm thighs flung over the armrest of a couch or chair or sofa or sitting awfully straight on her desk.

He couldn't read her over the phone and he didn't like being unable to read someone. He, at least, wanted to give it a shot. He wanted to try reading people even without Legilimency but it didn't work. He had to rely on her voice, on her intonation and on her inflection. He had to rely on such silly things as judging whether he laughter was genuine or not. He had to do with imagining the way she looked. For all he knew, she might do the exact same opposite of what he thought she was doing. He missed that, not her. Or maybe her too, but reading her, he missed more, just because he could. Because he felt that he could judge her reactions to various things rather well.

And so he sat and waited and not even the new book he had bought on Semantics couldn't take his mind off things.

.

Hermione cursed under her breath. She had wanted to skip her afternoon lectures to apparate to Snape and get the entire thing done with but then one of the other students, a bloke called Ian had talked to her during her sandwich for lunch and had basically dragged her into the geometry lecture. She couldn't very well say no to him, especially since he looked at her that way. Yes, okay, so she had made sure to dress nicely. It was only a clean pair of jeans and a nice top but she had wanted to appear more grown up around Snape. Show him that she wasn't a little girl anymore and the cleavage she displayed in that top definitely screamed woman instead of girl. Ian seemed to think so too, even though she had to admit that he tried hard to look in her eyes when she spoke.

He seemed nice enough, actually. Asked her a few questions and listened attentively to her answers (even if she almost stuttered when he had asked what kind of school she had gone to) and had told her stuff about himself. Had invited her to share lunch the next day between lectures and she had said yes.

Snape wouldn't want her in any case and hadn't she told Ginny to look at other options apart from Harry as well? Back then when they all had been young? She had, and she hadn't even listened to her own advice. So, then, she had. She had gone and she had told him that they would meet in front of the maths-building the next day. And for a moment, she had been close to forgetting Snape, even if she hadn't. Not quite. Had felt so guilty that she hadn't been able to go there sooner and congratulating herself for not telling him what time exactly he could expect her.

It was already quite late, after her lectures (and Ian had been in all of them with her) and after she had copied a few pages out of a book. It was late and if she wanted to...well, not if she wanted to, she had actually promised Snape to be there that day. And since it was a quarter to nine, she was in a hurry. Not that apparating in a hurry was a good idea and so she stood for a moment, quietly, listening to her own breathing before she closed her eyes and felt herself being squeezed through a tube and landed, hopefully complete and without any pieces missing, in Snape's garden.

She was just about to pull her little mirror from her pocket when she heard his voice from his little patio. "If I had known that you'd come so late, I would have gone to Uni myself," he complained and she, immediately and embarrassingly, blushed.

"I'm sorry, I wanted to be here this afternoon but things got a little messy and...I'm sorry. We can postpone..."

"Are you focused?" he asked and watched her walking up towards him.

"Of course I am."

"And you haven't wasted all your little braincells on maths?" sneered Snape.

"No, not yet," she retorted quickly. "But ask me again in a few months time," she rolled her eyes, feeling almost dizzy at the closeness at which he stood. He smelled good. He was taller than that idiot Ian who had made her miss the opportunity to be there at Snape's sooner, he was leaner than that idiot and he smelled better and his hair was cleaner (not by much though) and he knew her.

Snape knew who she was. He made fun of her braininess. He cracked jokes. He wasn't Ian who didn't even know she was a witch. Couldn't even realise what she was about to do.

"Are you sure you don't want anyone else here?" she asked quietly, following him closely to the inside of the house.

"Would you like an audience?" he asked in a scathing tone.

"No, not really," she exhaled audibly. "Snape but if something..."

"Nothing will go wrong," he replied, his voice full of authority and he pulled himself up to full height and he looked quite imposing and he...trusted her.

He just bloody trusted her. He wanted her to try and lift the curse even though they still hadn't found out whether it would kill him. It seemed unlikely to, most of the books said so, but there was still the possibility. He trusted her. He wanted her to do it with nobody else present and this, only this realisation hit her more than hard. She stepped towards him and since he didn't take a step back, she slowly raised her hands and put both of her hands on his chest. Just put them there, didn't pull away. Oh but they looked rather foreign. Not like her own hands at all. They looked so mature and so grown up against the black colour of his jumper. Rather elegant, she thought strangely enough. And her hands were getting warmer and warmer by the second, his chest, even though she couldn't even feel it directly was scorching her hands and her fingers and she didn't dare to look up in his face. The look of revulsion he would undoubtedly wear would only destroy the illusion that her hands looked as if they belonged there. Felt like they belonged there. Warm and cosy and wonderful and she wanted to do this. Just put her hands on his chest all the time. Nothing more. If she could only have that...

.

What the hell was she doing touching him like this? Her little, pretty hands on his chest, unmoving, untrembling, unshivering. None of those things. Just her little, pretty hands on his chest. Fingers splayed ever so slightly. No pressure from her fingers. Nothing. Just her hands on his chest. She seemed to have cut her fingernails and they were shiny and a bit of her cuticle on the middle finger of her left hand looked as if it had been chewed off. Or chewed on. She didn't look at him. She looked at her hands and maybe she was ashamed to have ever put her hands there but then, wouldn't she pull them away quickly? Would she still stare at them and at his chest?

She was tiny now, compared to him, standing so close. Well, maybe not tiny but she could easily put her head on the crook of his neck if she liked, without having to bend down or get on the tips of her toes. She could simply put her head there. Just a few more inches, and letting her hands slide to his back and she could just stand there and put her head there, rest it there before she had to perform this screeching. Chant. The thing she was doing to help him.

Her hands on his chest. Warm, little, pretty hands. They were burning his skin, even if there was his jumper between them and his chest. And a t-shirt underneath the jumper because it had been so cold this morning.

She still couldn't look at him when she began to mumble. "Sorry," she said to the floor. "Erm," she continued and let her hands fall to her sides, her eyes cast the ground.

"Shall we just get on then?" he replied, loud and clear even though his voice sounded slightly differently to his ears. As if he hadn't spoken in a while. Or as if he had spoken too much. He didn't know which.

"Erm, yes," finally, she looked up but didn't meet his eyes. Her cheeks were rosy red and his eyebrows shot up suddenly.

This wasn't for only her thirst of knowledge and acknowledgement. This was for him. She did this for him. The gushing Draco had mentioned, the relentless working on finding a counter-curse, calling him almost in the middle of the night with no major news, just basically to say good night, it all added up. It all added up to one thing and Severus didn't dare to mention it. Not even to himself. But it added up to one thing. One thing. One unmentionable thing and it let something inside of him snap. He couldn't name it and even if he could have, he wouldn't have wanted to. But it made him look at her again and he didn't see Hermione Granger the former schoolgirl at all anymore. Not even a part of her. This was Granger who wanted to help him. Out of her own free will. She had deemed him important enough to be one of her pet projects. She had put time and energy in him. She called him. She talked to him on the phone. All of this voluntarily. Nobody had made her. There wasn't any other force behind this than herself. Just herself.

He took a deep breath and, cleared his throat. "Ready?"

"I am," she said more securely and looked right into his eyes. Open, wide, curious eyes. Brown eyes. Nice shade of brown. "Erm, would you like to just sit down?"

He nodded and sat, facing her, looking up at her as she pulled her wand from her pocket and pointed it at him. At any other time in his life, he would have been afraid and would have been quick to pull his own wand. At any other time, he would have never trusted a person to just put their wands on him. Not this time. He felt oddly calm and oddly relaxed and he smirked.

"Let the screeching begin," he said light-heartedly, knowing that his world was, most likely, about to change again in a good, or in a bad way.

.

She had to put all her energy into focusing. Never in her life had she felt such difficulties doing precisely that. Never in her entire life. Only when he looked at her like this.

He trusted her. He hadn't even flinched when she had pointed her wand at him. No flinching, no trembling, no shivering. Just a smirk and half a joke. Nothing else and she was supposed to focus. To concentrate.

Hermione tried to clear her mind. This wasn't any different than practising the screeching in front of the mirror. No different at all. She told herself over and over in her head that this was just another practise session. She wasn't doing anything else. Just practising. Nothing else.

The chant which sounded like a screech rose from her throat and from her stomach all by itself. Snape deserved to have his magic back. Snape deserved to be a wizard again. Snape needed to have a wand and Occlumency and Legilimency and he needed his magic. He needed it. She wanted him to have it. She wanted him to change the wizarding world. She wanted him to go out and make sure that easily swayed idiots like Shacklebolt could all go to hell. She wanted the wizarding world to know that they had made a major mistake in stripping him off his magic.

The chant got louder and her surroundings blurred in front of her eyes. She was entirely focused on Snape and on his dark eyes, the black pools which threatened to pull her in and which promised to protect her at the same time.

In a moment, it was over. The wording had been perfect and the chant sounded like the screech she knew it would have to sound like and Snape sat there, still breathing and still looking at her and exhausted, she let her wand sink by her side. Hermione's breathing was laboured and difficult and she felt as if she had run a mile or more.

"And?" she asked, completely breathlessly.

.

"And?" she asked, sounding as if she had just run around the Quidditch pitch.

And – was a good question. He had felt a tingling. A tingling he hadn't felt when the curse had been put on him but then again, at that time, he had been busy otherwise, not focused on any spells on him. This time, he had only seen her brown eyes and the way she exuded determination. The way he could almost feel she wanted him to have his magic back. Her secure posture, her safe pronunciation and the way her wand had glowed a faint blue.

"And?" she asked again, impatient and he knew there was something inside of him but he wasn't sure what. Maybe it was just his body rebelling before dying, maybe it was his body telling him that his magic was still gone or maybe...

He quickly pried her wand from her cold fingers and gave it a wave.

.

_**Oh sorry, cliffie. Sorry, sorry. **_

_**(Yeah, my first day on Monday. Not what I have been promised and not what I have expected. I have to think long and hard and wait a few weeks to see if I can continue this. I am not used to working with kids who have been to prison already and I haven't trained to deal with such kids at all and since the Headmistress (yeah, there were go) isn't any help at all, and doesn't answer any questions at all, I suppose I won't be doing it for long. Yeah. But I'll still give it a try and won't give up and all the didactic and theoretical ideas you gave me were nice but I tried all of this and not to get a class quiet after all those little tricks is not only unnerving but exhausting as well). **_


	81. Holophrastic Stage

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Between twelve and eighteen months, children being to produce a variety of recognizable single unit utterances. This period, traditionally called the 'one-word-stage', is characterised by speech in which single terms are uttered for everyday objects such as 'milk', 'cookie', 'cat', 'cup'. Other forms may occur in circumstances which suggest that the child is producing a version of _what's that_, so the label 'one-word' for this stage may be misleading. Terms such as 'single-unit', or 'single-form' may be more accurate, or we could use the term holophrastic (a single form functioning as a phrase or a sentence), if we believe that the child is actually using these forms as phrases or sentences. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

Severus saw the wand and something inside of him told him to grasp it, to take it, to hold it tightly and to wave it. He couldn't explain. He couldn't justify it to himself why he thought it was necessary but he knew, something would happen. He knew there would be a result and from the tingling he had felt, she had triggered with her screeching, from the way his mind felt and the way there were walls between thoughts, he knew that there would be a result. A good result. Quickly, before she could realise what he was doing, he had taken her wand and waved it and barely a second later, energy flooded through him. The wand warm in his hands and humming to him. There was something again – something he had missed all this time. Something bigger than himself and something he couldn't describe. There was something and when he even only wriggled the wand, there were golden sparks erupting from the tips. Golden sparks, red sparks a second later, then silver sparks, then green sparks. There were sparks and they flew around his living room for a moment, lingered at the ceiling before they burned themselves out and he watched them in utter fascination before he tried, slowly, to use his Occlumency shields. They were there as well. He could use Occlumency again. Occlumency and there were sparks.

"You have it," she said breathlessly. "It's back."

He didn't dare to speak. There was a power inside of him that he hadn't felt in over a year. There was something. It was something and it was powerful and magical and wonderful. He felt complete again and there it was. She had done it. He was complete again.

Severus Snape closed his eyes for a second, waving the wand around another time and there were more sparks, multi-coloured. All the colours of the rainbow and Granger watched them.

"It is," he said slowly, staring at the wand and at his hand and being utterly overwhelmed by the feeling inside of himself. A gap had been filled. A void that he had missed sorely and at the same time, hadn't been sure he had missed had been filled. By her.

In that moment, illuminated by multi-coloured sparks, she seemed to be even more beautiful that he had ever thought before. She was beautiful under normal circumstances, in her own way, but under the light of the sparks he had made with her wand, she seemed to be the most beautiful creature on Earth. In the entire universe. The way she stood there, drops of sweat gathering at her upper lip, drops of sweat on her forehead and her hands shaking, without her wand, helpless in terms of Wizarding Law. She had done an extraordinary thing. She had filled a void he hadn't even noticed. She had known and it seemed she knew him better than he thought.

He didn't know what came over him. There were sparks from the wand, there was a powerful force inside of him and he held a wand in his hand that seemed to fit to him quite well and since he had been trained by Eleanor, since he was the happiest he had ever felt before, or maybe since he could remember, since he could easily hit her with any hex in his repertoire, since he knew that there would be potions in his future, potions and Linguistics and hexes and decent food provided by Eleanor and Tesco and spells, he stood up from his chair, quite underestimating how wobbly his legs were. He stood up from his chair, stood on wobbly legs and jelly knees and looked at her.

She was beautiful. Why had it taken him so long to see it? So exhausted with rings the size of Jupiter around her eyes, with tears of exhaustion or happiness or whatnot clinging to her lashes, with a deep cleavage and not quite a smile on her lips, she was beautiful. And there was something inside of him that he had missed and she had brought it back.

Maybe, but he didn't want to think about that now, he only considered her beautiful, only saw her as being beautiful because he had brought this back.

No, in that moment, only that filled void and her, who had filled it, mattered, and because he had been taught by Eleanor, because he had been raised, the second time, by Eleanor, it was the simplest thing imaginable to just stand there and raise his hands and put his hands on her shoulder and let them slide down her back. It was so simple to just envelope her in a hug and to just pull her to him and he was right, her forehead fitted easily into the juncture between his neck and his chin. It fit there perfectly.

Her hair smelled like apple and cherries and he had to sniff it and his nose was close to it, he knew, but he also knew that he wasn't acting like himself and he knew that it was just the extraordinary happiness and the feeling of fulfilment that made him want to smell her hair and his hands were splayed over her back, holding the wand between two fingers.

He was whole again and that mattered. That, and the smell of her hair and the feeling of her face pressed against his bare skin.

.

It was, honestly, like an out of body experience. Suddenly, there was warmth enveloping her. Fingers splayed across her back and a nose buried in her windswept hair. There were her own hands which didn't feel like her own hands at all, splayed across another back and she just held onto the body that was holding onto her. There was warmth and the smell of sandalwood and lavender and paper. Smelled like a book and she was holding onto that smell.

He was hugging her. He had come, had walked, towards her and had pulled her to him and it was like she was seeing this from another perspective. Not her own, someone else's, someone who could see anything, not just the black of his jumper and the exact same shade of his skin. Even when she closed her eyes, she could see how it had happened. The way he had looked – so relieved and so young and so happy and she had suddenly just found herself into those arms and had smelt this smell and she hadn't wanted to ever let go. She was there, hugging Snape.

Or Snape was hugging her. She wasn't sure and she didn't care. As much, it seemed, as he was clinging to her, she was clinging to him. They were whole. Both of them. She had given this gift to him, she knew, and he appreciated that, she knew that as well. They were both there, appreciating the fact that there had been something missing from his life. Something that had been reinstated the moment her wand had produced golden and silver and red and green sparks. And all the other colours of the rainbow. The moment he had waved the wand and the moment there had been a reaction, it had been all too clear. Snape was a wizard again. A powerful wizard. Someone to be reckoned with. She knew it and she knew that he knew it. It was all there.

And in there hug, there were so many different things. His smell and the way he held her tightly but tenderly – there were appreciation and gratitude and all those feelings that so many people had trouble expressing.

He didn't. One simple hug.

Snape hugged her.

Snape hugged her.

Snape held tightly onto her and made no move to let go.

This wasn't right.

Hermione pulled away. This wasn't right. This wasn't what she had wanted. This wasn't why she had done this.

She shoved his hands away and stepped out his embrace, not looking at his face.

.

She suddenly pulled away. Just when he had begun to see what Eleanor had meant all those times when she had said that there were other people to embrace, other people whose embrace would feel so different from hers, other kinds of affection, Granger pulled away and stared at the floor. Stared at the floor, then at her wand which she snatched ever so quickly from his fingers.

"I have to go," she said without looking at him and his arms, still feeling cold being not around her, were empty. His hands were empty and he could see the panic rising in her. Panic in her eyes which she kept casting downwards.

"Granger, I..."

"No, I have to go," she said again and stepped further away from him. This wasn't right. He hadn't been done hugging her. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't justify it, but he hadn't been done. Embracing her had been...

"I have to go," she cried out, panicky, and a moment later, only shooting a glance at him, looking in his eyes, she had darted away.

.

She had to go. This was an illusion. He had been grateful and he had hugged her because she had given him his magic back. Everything else she had felt in that embrace had been an illusion. Nothing but her brain making connections that weren't there – and she had to get away and quickly.

She took her wand from him and, only briefly looking at him, ran out his house, into his garden. There, she could apparate. There she could get away from this.

Snape hugging her. Her, hugging Snape. Utter insanity. Utter, sincere insanity. She had to get away. Back to Harry and Ron and little Ted. Back to her own life. She had done her job. Everything else was immaterial in any case. He was grateful and instead of shaking her hand, he had hugged her but that was bad and she didn't want it. Her crush, such as it was, was bad enough and she didn't want to suffer anything more.

Her job was done, she didn't have to see him again anymore. She could get over her crush and it would be simple now. If only she could forget the crush.

.

Suddenly, she was gone. All warmth he had felt was gone with her. Everything. Gone. His arms empty, and the void that had been filled inside of him yearning for her again. Had left so quickly.

Severus sat back down and tried hard to analyse his feeling. Tried to keep his Occlumency shields down, tried hard not to compartmentalise but it didn't work. It didn't work at all. His shields had snapped up again but he nevertheless felt a pang of regret, thinking about Granger.

His mind was working at double-speed and even though he could still feel her face pressed against his neck, the reinstated Occlumency kept him from thinking about it too hard.

.

_**Sorry this is so short. Didn't want to leave you hanging for too long and the next few days will be horribly busy. Sorry for not replying to the reviews individually. I wish I could since you all gave me so much and maybe I will eventually but just let me tell you how much every single one meant to me and how they made me smile. I am very grateful to have such loyal and wonderful readers!  
**_

_**(The Headmistress never answered all my questions but now she offered me four more hours every week. I don't know what to make of it and the entire thing...)**_


	82. Fossilisation

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_If some learners develop a fairly fixed repertoire of L2 forms, containing many features which do not match their target language, and they do not progress any further, their interlanguage is said to have 'fossilised'. The process of fossilisation in L2 pronunciation is one obvious cause of a foreign accent. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

Eleanor was awfully suspicious. She knew something was going on but whenever she asked Severus, he didn't answer her. He didn't smile as often. He had shrunk back the day before when she had taken his hand. Had been strange for the last three days. Something was odd and his face seemed colder than it had before. He still went to Uni and he still came over for meals but other than that, he kept very much to himself and that worried her.

Something had happened and she didn't know what it was. Asking didn't help. Nothing helped. Not his favourite foods and not setting Draco and Aideen on him. She was worried and it showed. Usually, when she had been worried, he had seen it and he had done something about it. Not now. Now he almost seemed absent and detached – when he was there. She didn't hear him during the night, never any shouts triggered by nightmares, nothing.

She was worried and she had to talk this over with Draco and Aideen again. Those two sat on her table and waited for her to bring the tea and even though she had told both youngsters to get in touch with Hermione Granger, the young woman had not yet shown up and Eleanor doubted, somehow, that she would.

She dragged herself to the table with the tray with the tea things in her hands. Her back was giving her trouble again and her feet hurt. She wasn't getting any younger and she knew it. The worry about Severus didn't necessarily make her feel better also.

"Gran?" Aideen asked gently, reacting to her soft sigh.

"I want to know what's going on with him," she said severely.

Draco cleared his throat and looked at her intently. "If I didn't know it better, I'd say that he's back to his old ways. To the way he was at school and hence, has his magic and with that, the Occlumency back," he shrugged. "I tried asking Granger but she wasn't answering her phone when I tried to call her and when I went over the London to see her, she wasn't there either. At least Potter and Weasley said so."

"Can't you call them Harry and Ronald, Draco? And Hermione?" Aideen punched him playfully. "Maybe it's got nothing to do with magic but she didn't answer the phone when I called her either and when I asked Severus where she was, he sort of scowled and said nothing either. What if..."

"This is just lovesickness?" Eleanor gasped. "If those two...well...they would go well together but she's so young and...are you sure?"

"Granger certainly..." Draco began but the gentle hand of her granddaughter on his arm stopped him and made him look at her.

"I think Hermione has feelings for him," she said softly. "But Severus..." she shrugged.

"Those idiotic children," Eleanor said angrily and pushed her palms against the table top, pushing herself (with a painful moan) up and glaring at the two young people. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

Draco shrugged. "I wasn't sure."

"I thought that maybe they'd manage, somehow. That if he continued sulking like this, he'd talk to her," Aideen said apologetically. "I mean he can't go moping about like this..."

"He's not really moping, Aideen," Draco shook his head. "Honestly, he was like this at school. You never knew what he felt or if he felt anything at all. He kept himself in a sort of angry-detached state all the time. He was either angry or he was nothing at all. Seriously. And he's like that."

"I'll go and talk to him again," Eleanor huffed. "He can't go acting like a teenager."

.

Harry had given up Quidditch for good. It was alright to let Teddy stay at the Burrow once in a while but when he had to decide upon playing for another season, he had to say no. Teddy was more important. And if he maybe, eventually, decided to write a book about the war (under a nom de plume, if at all), there would be a lot of money, if he should run out of it – which he doubted. He would be a full-time father for Teddy. Wouldn't leave him with Kreacher, wouldn't even let Kreacher watch over him while he was sleeping. No. Teddy was his responsibility and that was the end of that particular story.

There were other stories in his life – and he would still be going out. He still wanted to find out a few things – about himself. But all that could wait.

He could be a good father, well, godfather, to Teddy, but at the same time, there was still the mystery of Hermione to solve. Usually, it was Hermione who solved all the mysteries. Hermione who knew all the answers. But as Hermione was the mystery herself – she couldn't do it.

For the last few days she had acted strangely. Very, very strangely. She still ate – obediently – most of her meals with them, or at least breakfast before she apparated to Uni and she only ate a quick bite after Uni before she went to her room. And stayed there until the next morning and breakfast.

That, in itself, wasn't mysterious. Hermione liked studying and she liked to do so in silence. But not even joking with Teddy, not even berating Ron for eating like a pig. She just sat and ate quickly, basically wolfed her food down, then darted away. She was quiet and pale and pensive. And if Harry hadn't insisted Kreacher cooked fattening, wholesome, nutritious food, he didn't doubt that Hermione would lose weight as well. Something was wrong with her and he couldn't figure out what it was.

Yes, she talked less about Snape and Malfoy and all those people around them but she had begun talking less about them after he and Ron had to pick her up there with the case of low-blood-sugared-apparition. Somehow she had stopped talking about them. Especially about Snape and he didn't even know if she was still working on the counter-curse. It certainly didn't look like it.

Her room, he thought as he had carried Teddy up there just after she had left for Uni, was clean and the only things lying around were books on maths. Yes, so he felt a little bad about snooping but it was odd, the way she behaved and he wanted to solve that Hermione-mystery without the help of Ron (who was working with his brother) and naturally, without the help of Hermione. He had Teddy with him and maybe the little one could solve this mystery – which had to be solved before he could solve his own, personal mystery.

This was the test-run, so to speak, he decided. If he could find out what was bothering Hermione, he could most certainly figure out where exactly he stood.

Her room, such as it was, didn't give him any clues from just looking around and because it was Thursday and he knew that Hermione had lectures until late, he decided to take an even bigger risk and to take a closer look around.

"You're really getting too heavy to carry around for a long time," he told his godson with a smile, kissed Teddy and put him on the floor. "Go explore," he said gently, "maybe you will help me solve the mystery of Hermione. If you find anything concerning Snape, you yell, alright?" he laughed, then moved closer to her desk, half an eye on his godson.

He made sure to take a good look where everything lay or stood before he touched things on her desk. It was only notes on maths, it was nothing even remotely related to magic. Nothing magical in the slightest. It was only Muggle things. A little black book which he didn't dare to open (might be her diary and he was sure he didn't want to delve quite so deep into the mystery that was Hermione), various cords, her laptop, books. Plenty of books. All related to maths.

This wasn't the desk of a witch. This was the desk of a Muggle mathematics student. He sighed and carefully sat down on her chair, watching Teddy crawl towards the bed, babbling happily.

Maybe that was it just it. Maybe it had something to do with Snape and those people around him – maybe she was weary of magic and come to think of it, she didn't use it all that much. She apparated, yes, but that was it, as far as he could see lately. Maybe Snape had influenced her. Maybe Draco, by going back to the Muggles, had influenced her. Maybe she was just confused about herself and that was why she was strange lately.

"G'daddy look!" Teddy squealed and with a chubby finger, he pointed at a beautifully painted, wooden box which stood under Hermione's bed. This boy was probably better than any bloodhound. Or he just liked the painted box. Harry preferred to actually think the former rather than the latter, especially when he got down on his hands and knees as well and pulled the box out and Teddy traced it reverently with his baby-fingers.

"Do you think we should open it?" Harry asked his godson, then nodded to himself. "It won't hurt to take a look, will it?"

Teddy smiled, a bit of spit gathering at the corner of his mouth which Harry wiped away – automatically – with the sleeve of his jumper before he bent over the box and slowly opened it.

.

"Severus," the woman stood before him, a little hunched over, a hand pressed to her back and he knew that there was something he felt for this woman. There was something but he couldn't make it out. He knew the hand pressed to her back meant something as well.

Ah – the hand meant pain. Yes, he knew that.

"Yes?" he drawled, barely looking up from the book he had read before she had, so rudely, interrupted him.

"I will ask you one last time, what is wrong with you?" she almost shrieked.

"I was reading and you interrupted me," said he.

"This is not you," the woman shook her head. "This is not the boy that's been living..."

"I am no boy," he explained coldly. "And you would do well to remember it."

The woman stared at him truly astonished, then went over to him and pinched his ear between her thumb and finger. "No more excuses. I don't know you anymore. I don't know what's going on and I want to know. I'm not feeding you to have you act like this and behave like this towards me. Is this this Imperius thing? Are you under a spell?" she asked very softly. "Is that it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about and I'd be very much obliged if you could leave me alone," he muttered, bent over the book, his ear hurting from her tight grip.

"I'm not. I'm not going to leave you alone until I know what is happening," she shook her head and the pressure on his ear increased even more.

"Stop manhandling me, woman!"

"You will not call me that. You will not call me woman and get away with it," she shouted loudly and pinched his ear tighter. "You will explain to me what's going on. For heaven's sake, Severus..."

He looked up into her eyes. They were pale green. Pale green and rather moist. Her thin lower lips was pulled between her teeth and she seemed to chew on it. There was something. Something he felt for this woman.

His Occlumency was strong. He had built those walls surrounding his feelings even stronger than those surrounding the rest of his thoughts and he knew there were feelings. For her and for Draco Malfoy and Aideen Callaghan and for Granger. He knew they were there, behind his walls. The walls he had, himself erected. Had spent years strengthening them. There was something.

He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them when there was something like a raindrop on his cheek. He was inside, it couldn't be raining. It couldn't possibly. Indoors. He looked up at her and that woman was crying. The woman had shed a tear on him.

"I..." he closed his eyes again and knew that some of those walls had to go. Those surrounding the feelings for this woman had to go. Immediately. He focused. He concentrated very hard. And there was no getting through. He had built his own fortress and he had locked himself in.

Another tear dropped on his cheek but this time, it didn't surprise him all that much. He couldn't quite fathom why she should be crying. Or pinching his ear.

"You're in there, Severus. I know you are. The boy I love is somewhere there. What have they done to you? What's happened to you?"

"Granger gave me my magic back," he replied automatically, coldly. Detachedly.

"What?" the pain on his ear was gone suddenly.

"Are you hard of hearing," he snapped.

"Yes, I seem to be. Magic, Severus? Is that it? Is that why you're weird? Draco said something about this...he said you...but you can't change that easily. Not like this, Severus. Don't you remember? Have you forgot this? Do you remember that I love you? That I want you to be happy? Have you forgot this?" she almost shouted.

There was something. Like the faint light of a flickering torch inside his mind. A bit of light and he followed it. His thoughts followed the bright light instinctively.

.

Harry seemed to be extraordinarily pale. An unhealthy sort of pale. The sort of pale that Snape always had been. He hadn't been, come to think of it, when they had brought Hermione back home. Poor girl. Ever since that time, she was too embarrassed to do anything more than eat with them. Hell, he would be embarrassed too, if someone had to basically carry him home. Well, apparate him home but the idea behind it was the same.

"What's wrong, mate?" he asked, finding his friend sitting pale and idle at the kitchen table, no food prepared, no Kreacher in sight.

"She really has a crush on Snape," said Harry. "And she's tried to write to him but she didn't..."

"Huh? We knew she had a crush. She told us and the way..."

"Don't interrupt me," snarled Harry. "I found letters she wanted to write to him in her room."

"Why would you find those in her room? What did you have to do in her room?"

"I was bloody worried about her. She's written to him. Or tried to. She loves him. Or thinks she does, what the hell do I know and he probably rejected her and that's why she's like this. The bloody bastard. Rejecting Hermione? Only a bloody idiot would be so stupid."

"Well thanks a lot," Ron replied, hurt. He had been an idiot to let her go, or not to start anything with her but what other chance did he have? He wanted to be happy and he wanted Hermione to be happy. They wouldn't have been happy together as a couple. Instinct had told him and if Hermione was the type of girl to fall for a bloke like Snape, his instincts had probably been correct.

"Ron, I didn't mean it," said Harry. "But we have a problem now, don't you see?"

"No, we go to the greasy git and tell him that he's an idiot for rejecting her," Ron shrugged.

"Do you have a death wish?"

"Sometimes, yes," he grinned, trying to push the hurt of Harry's impulsive comment away.

"No, seriously. We have to cheer her up," said Harry. "Lovesick girls are..."

"Yeah, you tell me. I had to live with Ginny after...oh. Well, sorry, I guess we're even now, eh?"

Harry rolled his eyes, then nodded as silence fell over the two, each of them probably thinking of a way to make their friend feel better.

.

Well it was...not the way she had thought it would be. The boys would be worried about her but if Harry still refused to get a mobile phone or an email address, she couldn't help it. It would have been much too conspicuous to send an owl while, well, being in liplock with a bloke. He did feel wrong. He was too small and his hair was different and he hugged differently. But she had been – desperate. She had wanted to stop thinking about Snape and the hug and the fire and light in his eyes. She had wanted to forget about all that.

Not that she had planned on things ending up in, well, Ian's dorm room. Or, to be more precise, with her skirt bunched up on her blouse and bra undone on his bed. With her knickers...well, somewhere. Not where they should have been.

She had wanted to forget and had failed miserably. All the time, she swore, all the time that he said something or did something, she had immediately thought was Snape would do or say. The way Snape would kiss. The way Snape would move. The way Snape would make certain noises and whether Snape would pull her in his arms afterwards or would just sort of flop down by her side as Ian had done. Whether it would be better with Snape because, quite honestly, if sex was always like this, almost boring, making her long to read at the same time, she had no doubt that she could easily live without it for the rest of her life.

He wasn't Snape. And she had wanted Snape to be her...first. Now, some idiot called Ian (and she didn't even know his surname) had had that privilege. With a weird glint in his eyes when she had told him. Incredulous look. As if he thought her ridiculous that she hadn't...so far.

Hermione blushed and pulled her skirt down to her knees again before she sat up and closed her bra and blouse.

"Oi, where you going?" asked Ian, groggily and she looked at him and was repulsed. By herself, by him. It was all so disgusting. Undignified. Horribly wrong.

"I have to go," she said quickly and ignored that her knickers were still somewhere not on her.

"Will you come back? Will I see you?"

"No," she said quickly. "This was a mistake. Sorry." She blushed again and, with her book bag flung over her shoulder, she left his room and the building and apparated home to her room in Grimmauld Place as soon as she found a quiet spot.

.

**_You will kill me now, right? Can I please ask for a quick death? Painless as well, if that's okay...thanks!_**

**_(The teaching seems to be going a bit better but I'm still not quite happy with things are going even though I got my questions answered. I don't think I'm cut out to work with troubled children. I never give up though and that's what I truly hate about myself. I never notice when I'm running myself into the ground or when something is hopeless...)_**


	83. Parasitic Gaps

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_One basic property of parasitic gaps is that they are typically licensed by a wh-trace (or other operator bound trace) in object position but not in subject position as illustrated below, where t is the real gap and e the parasitic gap. _

_a. what did you file t [before reading e]_

_b. what did you file t [before you read e]_

_c. 'who [t met you [before you recognised e]]_

_The restriction concerning subjext must be qualified, however. A subject can license a parasitic gap that it does not c-command, as noted by Longobardi, who observes that e is more acceptable than d:_

_d. *a man who [t looks old [whenever I meet e]]_

_e. man who [whenever I meet e] [t looks old]_

(Yule, 1986)

.

Four, five, six, seven. Seven tears shed on his person. Seven tears while he fought and battled and used all the heavy tools he could think off in his mind. A sledgehammer. A crowbar. A shovel. An excavator.

Heavy tools and seven tears shed on his cleanly shaven cheek.

Heavy tools and determination and seven tears of an innocent, loving, kind, brave Muggle woman shed on his skin and he was able to take a deep breath. He took a deep breath and the last of the walls crumbled. It fell to ashes and dust in his mind.

It was all there, laid bare before him as it had been the moment they had snapped his wand, the moment they had cast the curse on him. Memories rushing back to him. There was Eleanor in one corner of his mind, hugging him and smiling at him and with a hand on his cheek telling him that she loved him, cooking for him and looking almost cheekily over her shoulder to see if he had set the table already. Eleanor offering him a cup of tea and telling him to talk about it. Eleanor lying lifelessly on the floor, being healed by his godson. Feelings that were indescribable rushing back into his conscious. Feelings that had been suppressed for the last few days. Boxed up behind heavy walls in his mind. Feelings for her. He loved that woman. She had been more of a mother to him than his own had ever been. She had cared – from the first moment, she had first spoken to him over the wall in the garden. She had even cared about him as a boy. She had known him longer than anyone still alive and she knew him just as well these days. She knew who he was and he loved her for that and despite of that.

Draco, the little boy, the young man and the almost-adult smirking and smiling and grinning at him. Showing off his stuffed snake by the time he had been two or three. Being so desperate and so stuck in his own decision to prove himself at the age of...too young. Smiling with Aideen. Kissing Aideen and holding her and smirking at him. Helping him set the table. Smiling softly over the rim of his cauldron back at Hogwarts as a first year. With his nose broken by Granger in his third year, too proud to go to Madam Pomfrey but asking him for help. Grinning at his laptop when Aideen had emailed him. Being cuddled by Eleanor. Smirking evilly at Granger. He loved that boy. Had loved him since he had been a helpless little newborn, crying and screaming for food and attention and love and a fresh nappy. He loved that boy.

Granger at the other corner of his mind. Granger smiling softly at him and Granger falling on top of him after that apparition. Granger looked absolutely stunned as he had taken her hand. Granger in his arms. Granger as she fought valiantly to produce a little vial to contain his memories in in the Shrieking Shack. Granger almost crying over him. Granger with freshly shed tears in her eyes. Granger being absolutely afraid of going into Malfoy Manor but still going inside. Granger next to him in the car. Granger arguing with him. Granger in his arms. Granger smiling exhaustedly just before she had to be in his arms. Granger smiling. Granger in his arms.

He didn't love Granger.

But given the time, he knew he could. He knew he could.

Lily, seeing her for what she was. Lily had been a friend and he had been in love with Lily. Too long. But she had been the first object of his desire. Lily rejecting him. Lily turning her back on him. Lily smiling as a little girl and Lily sneering at him later on. Lily ignoring him. Lily as she kissed Potter and ignored him. Lily had been the object he had been in love with. Lily – had he loved Lily? It had certainly seemed like it all those years but now...

.

She didn't care if she had all her eyebrows or all her eyelashes or even any of her other body parts. She just needed two legs and two feet that could bring her, easily, to her own room from the doorstep. More, she didn't need.

She ignored the twinge between her legs. She ignored the odd little pain now and again, she ignored the tears that fell silently. She ignored everything and just kept on walking, rushing, almost running down the corridor and up the stairs and into her room. She didn't bother to spell her door shut. She only saw her bed through a kind of mist and knew that she could cower on that. Could press her leg to her chest and tightly together and could forget all the rest.

Could forget the regret she already felt. The feeling of betrayal.

Betrayal. She hadn't betrayed anyone – only herself. She hadn't wanted this to happen this way. It hadn't been good or even satisfactory. It had taken too long and had been too boring and too humiliating. She felt ashamed for showing anyone her breasts and the rest of her body. She felt violated, almost, even though she had wanted it. She felt that she had given someone something that hadn't been rightly his.

Could she change it? No.

That's why, she knew, she had to forget this had ever happened.

Self-obliviation. Didn't know if that worked, or existed, or if it did and did work, would she use it more often? Would people?

She needed to get this line of thought from her head. Desperately.

Pressing her back tightly to the head of her bed, she pulled her legs, shoes and all, tighter to her body and barely noticed that her chest was heaving from the sobs she tried not to sob.

"Shite," she said loudly to herself and bent down to grab the cardboard box she knew she had shoved there when she had moved in. Without magic, she pulled it to her and opened it, and because she knew she had put it on the top, she pulled out her old teddy bear and after pressing herself to the headboard again, she held the teddy bear tightly to her chest.

.

She shed tears on him. She wasn't sorry that she cried on him, that her tears fell onto his cheek. She wasn't sorry at all. He needed to know that she loved him. She loved him.

Suddenly, and she couldn't tell what had happened, he looked up at her and the coldness she had seen in his eyes only a few moments ago was gone. He looked up and resembled a little boy more than ever before. His eyes showed wonder and excitement and fear and difficulty.

"Eleanor," he croaked, his voice rough and scratchy. Not at all the usual liquid silk he usually carried in his voice.

"What is it, Severus?" she asked, surprised at his tone and at the way he kept looking at her. Tender. That was it. He looked at her tenderly.

"I almost died," he explained.

"What?" she asked, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "What's happened?"

"Before I came back here," he explained. "I was on the brink of death. In more than one ways, I suspect."

"In the Shrieking Shack, you told me, love," she nodded. "But..."

"I was a spy. All my energy went into being a spy. Everything I was, everything I had learned to be. Hide it, show a front..."

"Severus, I don't..."

"There is too much to explain," he shook his head slightly and suddenly turned sideways on his chair. "I cannot explain. I am not a spy anymore."

"No, of course not," she said automatically, still not quite understanding what he wanted to tell her.

"And I don't ever want to be one again. I don't want to hide all of this," he said softly, barely comprehensible. It was almost as if he spoke to himself, not to her. "I don't want to forget about the pain and the joy. I don't..."

"Severus, you're not making much sense. Were you under a curse?"

He looked at her, deeply, as if he was trying to read her and after a long pause, he nodded. "I was under my own curse. But never again. Never again," he spoke, still more to himself. Quite suddenly, his arms shot out and around her waist and quite suddenly and unceremoniously, he had stood up, arms shot out, and she felt herself being squeezed tightly, pressed to his body as if she were a stuffed animal. He hugged her so tightly that she felt her lungs couldn't possibly fill up with enough air to let her live.

"I don't ever want that again and if I can't control..." he paused and pulled away slightly even though his arms were still around here. "Did you cry on me?"

She nodded. What a silly question. He still had the traces on his cheek.

"Seven. I counted them subconsciously," he nodded. "I read something somewhere about human tears and intent and lo..., erm, love," he said quite businesslike.

"Severus, are you quite alright? Are you sure you're not still under a curse?" she was still worried. He acted weirdly and out of reflex, she felt his forehead. No, not feverish. Definitely not feverish at all.

"I am alright," he smiled crookedly. "I am under no curse at all. I think I need to find a book on this. I need to ask Granger to..." he stopped.

"Hermione?" she used his pause. He had to explain all of this to her. In all detail but why bring Granger up like this in an already strange conversation? Why her again? She used her opportunity when he, still with his arms around her, seemed to see something in the distance and not her anymore. "What is it with Hermione Granger, love? Did she do something to you? Did you do something to her?"

His eyes fell back on her again and slowly, he nodded his head, then shook it. "No," he said. "But I think I have to...if I promise that I will explain everything, may I borrow your car?"

Eleanor frowned. "Severus, yes, but I want the explanation first. Did you say you had your magic back?"

"I do."

.

Her door was inched open and she looked up wiping the few remaining tears from her eyes quickly. She knew this entire thing had been her own fault and now, a few hours that she had spent crying and trying not to think – but thinking – over the entire matter, she realised that she had brought all this over herself.

She had basically forced Ian to have sex with her. She had made those eyes at him that she hadn't even known she was capable of making. She had kissed him first. Or had let him kiss her, she wasn't sure anymore. But she knew she had been the one to pull his short over his head and to touch his bare chest. First. It had been her own fault, not Ian's. He had done nothing but what he thought she wanted. And she had wanted it.

But sometimes, and she realised that only now, even things she wanted were stupid and silly and regrettable. She shouldn't have done it but a few hours crying and feeling sorry for herself had put things into perspective again. She had done this.

If she had so desperately wished for Snape to have been the one to...well...she should have just plucked up the courage to tell him how she felt. But that, she hadn't been able to do. And so, she had decided. She had decided where and when and how and with whom. It had been stupid and she felt utterly stupid and alone.

Alone, until the door to her room opened and she could see, clearly now but with aching eyes, that all of her boys stood there, quite unsure, quite insecure. Harry with Teddy on his arm and Ron, carrying a dummy and a stuffed griffin and Teddy's blanket. All three of them with expressions on their faces that almost made her laugh but at least Teddy didn't look like Snape at the moment. That, possibly, would have made her cry again.

"Come in then," she said tiredly, rubbing her eyes.

"We only came in," explained Harry in what she recognised now as his soothe-Teddy-voice.

"It's fine," she nodded.

"Why did you cry?" asked Ron bluntly.

"I, erm," she shook her head. "I am just stupid."

The boys, all three of them, moved towards her bed and Harry, with Teddy, sat on her right side and Ron, with the dummy and the stuffed griffin and the blanket on her left and she wasn't sure which side to lean to. Which of the boys she wanted to hug. Which one she ought to choose as her comforter.

The two of them exchanged a glance and Harry put Teddy slowly on the bed before he slipped his shoes off and sat against the headboard next to her, and as she looked over, she saw that Ron had done that same and that Teddy was crawling towards her and put his head on her chest, his little body against her tummy.

"Is there anything we can do for you?" asked Harry softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.

"Yeah, should we, erm, hex someone?" asked Ron, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as well. "Did he hurt you?"

"Did who hurt me?" asked Hermione, looking at Ron.

"Snape," informed her Harry.

She shook her head. "No, he didn't hurt me," she said slowly. "He has his magic back. Will you fix it for him with the Ministry, Harry?"

"All done. What's happened then?"

"I was just stupid," she explained again. "Nothing of any importance."

"Her-My-Oh-Nee sad," Teddy stated coolly and stroked, with his chubby hands, her upper chest.

"Not anymore, Ted," she smiled and hugged him to her, Harry and Ron sitting closely to her.

"Can we do anything?" asked Ron again.

"Just..." she felt fresh tears prickling at the back of her eyes again. Tears that weren't for Ian, or for her own stupidity, tears that were for Snape and her unrequited crush and for the unfairness of it all.

"Yes?" asked Harry, "We'll do anything, you know?"

"Just be there," she choked out. "Just be there. I just need my friends now."

.

In the end, Eleanor won. In the end, he told her, once more, everything. Well, he didn't tell her about whatever it was he felt now and whatever he felt he could feel in the future for Granger, but he told her about the counter-curse and about the trap he had pulled himself into. He explained, for the first time, how Occlumency worked and how he had to employ it for so long. How it had taken him years to perfect it and how, in the end, he had been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his own protection against himself and his own thoughts and feelings.

And in the end, she even won doubly. In the end, when he had finished telling her, it had been dark outside, and too late to drive all the way to London.

In the end, she had grinned at him and had given him a kiss on the cheek and had told him to go the day after. Had told him that he should get a wand and all the stuff he needed to be a proper wizard. And had, in the end, made fun of him because he hadn't even considered apparating to London if he thought it was so urgent.

He had, definitely, thought about apparition. But after the experience with his Occlumency, he knew he was out of touch. Magic and doing magic might be, he thought, like driving a bicycle. But it was simpler and a lot less dangerous to wobble around a bit on a bike while driving for the first time again in quite some time than apparating for the first time in a while.

But he would go. He truly needed to get a wand and a cauldron and a few ingredients for Eleanor's backache. He needed to make himself visible in the wizarding world again, maybe even go to the Ministry before he bought a wand. Just to see if they would still kiss him. Didn't trust those people any farther than he could throw them.

She had won in the end. She had stayed until it was time for bed and had only gone when he had been ready to go to bed himself. She had convinced him to make the long drive to London in the morning. And by morning, he knew what he would tell Granger. Couldn't very well order her to go to Diagon Alley with him.

Even though that might not be a bad idea. Just to see how she reacted. Just to see if she truly was what he thought she would be. Just to see what her reactions would be. Just to see if she felt something at all. In the morning because Eleanor and reason had won, in the end.

.

She could feel them falling asleep in her bed, all three of them and somehow, that made her feel protected and safe. And loved. Honestly, if Snape couldn't or wouldn't or didn't love her, those three did. They had asked an almost crying girl what was wrong and she knew that this took a lot of courage for men. She knew and it made her smile to know that they had dared to still.

She could hear them snoring all through the night and knew that she would never sleep in one bed, or one room, with all three of them again. Ever. In her life.

And by around five, when miraculously, all three of them had stopped snoring for a moment, she had fallen asleep as well. More or less happy. More or less alright with the fact that she had made a mistake and that life, whatever it would be like, could go on.

Maybe, she had thought just before falling asleep, she would even one day tell Snape that she had once felt something for him. Not yet though, not yet. For now, it was alright to have three boys looking after her. Even if they did snore.

.

Like any good Slytherin, he had a plan. It was a good plan but unlike any good Slytherin, he wasn't sure it would work. He had, so far in his life, never tried a similar plan but by the time he had reached the outskirts of Manchester, he had the outline and by the time he reached the outskirts of London, he was done fine-tuning it. He had even practised a few sentences in his head – something he had never done before.

So, at least he was sure about what he would do initially as he stood in front of the door he never thought he would see again and, clearing, emptying his mind without employing Occlumency (he didn't know what it would do to him should he use it again), he used the knocker on 12 Grimmauld Place.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(Going to see DH tomorrow. Yep, in cinemas tomorrow where I live. I'm not expecting much, so I can't be disappointed. I only want two or three Snapey-Rickman-scenes so I can squeal ;))**_


	84. The Localisation View

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_The localisation view is one way of saying that our linguistic abilities have identifiable locations in the brain. However, it is invariably argued by other involved in the study of the brain that there is a lot of evidence which does not support the view. Any damage to one are of the brain appears to have repercussions in other areas. Consequently, we should be rather cautious about assigning highly specific connections between particular aspects of linguistic behaviour and sites on the wrinkled grey matter inside the head. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

Who in the name of everything that was good and holy knocked at the door that early in the day, Ron mused grumpily. And why, he mused further, did he seem to be the only one hearing it? Hermione wasn't in her bed anymore and it was only Harry and Teddy, and both of them rivalling each other with their snoring.

He rubbed his eyes as he stumbled down the stairs. Probably Hermione had gone out to get some breakfast. But she had a key. And if she had forgot that, she could have always spelled the door open. The house knew her.

Or probably she had ordered something again from the infernal Inta-Ned. She did that often and she was never at home to get her own parcels. From what he knew from Ginny, girls when they were feeling down, often indulged in spending too much money. Instead of saving for a better broom, or a rainy day, they spent it on shoes and clothes and in Hermione's case, books.

He pulled the rumpled t-shirt as straight as he could (what had they been thinking to all sleep in Hermione's bed?) and tried to massage the knot in his neck (what had they been thinking?) and kept his wand low by his side, hidden by the door, as he opened it.

"Snape," he exclaimed in surprise – but his voice, he knew, still carried the deep, groany tone one usually had after sleep.

"Your powers of observation are quite astute, Mr Weasley," the man answered with an evil smirk. "Fallen out of bed that late in the day?"

Ron rubbed his eyes again. Snape. Almost not making fun of him. Almost not insulting him. Almost. Ron was getting more awake by the second and this, somehow, was his chance. He had no idea how to contact Snape without giving away that he wanted to talk to the man but the man had, obviously, quite out of his own free will, walked into their house and this, Ron knew, was his chance.

"Is there something in particular you want?" he asked, clearing his throat afterwards. His voice still sounded too scratchy.

"I'd like to see your flatmate, Mr Weasley," he replied immediately.

"Harry is still sleeping," Ron said with an arched eyebrow and knowing full well that he probably hadn't meant Harry.

"As always, Weasley, as always."

"As always what?"

"The other flatmate," he sounded almost bored.

"I don't know where she is but I assume she went to get breakfast. Would you like to wait in the meantime? I'm sure you remember where the kitchen is?"

Snape stared at him as if he had suddenly begun growing another head. Well, it couldn't hurt to be rather polite to him now. He had the talk coming in any case. With a nod of his head, and just as Ron had hoped, he strode towards the kitchen. Ron smirked. Yep, he was getting his talk and Snape had to listen. No matter what, Snape had to listen to him speak. For probably the first time in his life.

He followed him quickly and with a few waves of his wand, the kettle was on the stove and the rest of the tea-things on the table.

"So, any chance of you telling me why you want to see Hermione?" he asked conversationally and Snape glared. Bloody bastard just glared.

"None," he said smoothly.

"Good. Because there are a few things I have to tell you. You listen or you will never get to see her again."

Snape stood up and glared. Even in Muggle clothing and without a wand in his hand, he still managed to look very intimidating. Very.

"Hermione cried because of you and I don't like to see her cry," he blurted out.

"Excuse me?" Snape turned towards him with his glare.

"She cried because of you. And you and I both know that she might be saying it's only a crush but she's fully blown in love with you. I don't like it but I like it even less that you make her cry. We are not together and I have absolutely no claim on her and I don't even want it but she's my bloody best friend and I want to see her happy. If you make her cry, she's unhappy and I do. Not. Like. That."

"She cried?" Snape asked voicelessly and very softly.

"Yeah and whatever you did, you better apologise to her because she shouldn't cry," he said hotly and looked at the kettle. It was one thing to think about talking like this to Snape and quite another to actually do it. It seemed, he thought, that he had run out of steam now completely. Completely. Utterly. And Snape would surely kill him. He didn't need a wand for that.

"She cried?" Snape asked again. "When?"

"Last night and for all I know the night before and the night before. She eats right but only because we make her and I doubt she sleeps a lot. Whatever you have done..."

Snape arched an eyebrow and sat down. He looked rather surprised. Looked like he wanted to ask something but didn't dare. Strange, he thought.

"Good morning," Harry and Teddy on his arm entered the kitchen as he poured the boiling water in the pot of tea and he only heard Teddy's happy giggle. When he turned around again to look at Snape and Harry, Teddy had seemed to converted back into a strange Snape-look-alike form. Without the scowl or the arched eyebrow.

Snape just sat and looked at Harry and at Teddy but said nothing.

"If you hurt her, I will kill you. Or at least try," Ron said quickly before his courage left him completely.

"She is quite unhappy, sir," Harry said and bounced the Snape-look-alike Teddy on his knee. "And she was always the strongest of us. Sure, she cries from time to time but I figure that's what girls do but she was at it for more than an hour last night. And that was only what Kreacher could tell us. For all we know, she might have been crying even longer."

Snape said nothing. His face was the usual mask Ron remembered from school but suddenly, he cleared his throat and dragged his eyes away from Teddy and up to Harry's.

"What makes you both assume that it was me who made her cry?" he asked, his tone soft and silky.

"Because she's in bloody love with you," Ron cried out. "Nobody else, you..."

"I found letter of hers, for you in her room," said Harry. "And even if you didn't know before how she felt, now you do and if you don't feel the same way, just...leave her be. We can pick up the pieces but we cannot built ourselves an entirely new Hermione."

.

His entire beautifully concocted plan – he felt if being swept out of the window, no, thrown out of the window by Weasley and Potter.

What the hell were they saying? Granger in love with him? Having a crush on him? Crying because of him? How many women had he ever made cry in his entire life? And how many in just the span of a day or two? Granger was crying because of him?

Those two idiotic dunderheads were surely playing a trick on him. They were messing with his mind or he was overtired and shouldn't have left Manchester at around four thirty that morning. He had misunderstood them. Most likely. Or they were telling the truth, like any loyal Gryffindor with a protective streak and a Hufflepuffian way about them would do.

But if Granger had a crush on him, it changed the entire matter. This plan, his beautiful plan would not work on her. Or maybe it would, but quicker. Maybe he could speed things up a little if she felt...something for him.

What was it that Weasley had said?_ And you and I both know that she might be saying it's only a crush but she's fully blown in love with you._ If that had been his friend, he most certainly wouldn't survive the next few minutes. Not for giving away such a secret. Or maybe it wasn't a secret if she had told them she had a crush. A crush. On him.

Utterly ridiculous. And at the same time, no. She had gushed, hadn't she? She had always helped him, had always emailed back immediately. She had always been there when he had, in any way, needed her. And she had gushed. She had helped him and...

It was the same thought process but now...Weasley had confirmed it, hadn't he? His head was spinning with all that had been said. Those two boys had actually delivered him the answer, the entire answer, on a silver platter.

But why exactly had he made her cry? The last time he had seen her, the last time he had any kind of contact with her, he had hugged her, hadn't he? He had hugged her. She hadn't called afterwards and he had been too deep in his Occlumency that he hadn't even considered doing it himself. Why had she cried? The day before as well? He had nothing to do with the day before. He had spent his day first being locked in in his brain and then being cried on by an old woman.

Ah, yes, he could definitely tell those idiotic boys that. The magical properties of non-Magic humans. There had been something magical about it, he knew and apart from the way he wanted to see how she reacted to – well, stress – this was one thing he wanted to research. If Eleanor's tears had helped him break down his walls, there was some kind of power behind them for sure. And Granger was the one who could look through books quickest and most thorough.

But back to the topic at hand. It hadn't been in him to make her cry. It couldn't be. Not the day before. He had done nothing the day before. Or any time in the last few weeks at all. He had tried to be nice to her.

"What makes you both assume that it was me who made her cry?" he asked dangerously.

"Because she's in bloody love with you," Weasley cried out. "Nobody else, you..."

"I found letter of hers, for you in her room," said Potter. "And even if you didn't know before how she felt, now you do and if you don't feel the same way, just...leave her be. We can pick up the pieces but we cannot built ourselves an entirely new Hermione."

He didn't want to hurt her. Why did those two idiots think he would hurt her on purpose? Ah, yes, his track record. He had revelled in the fact that he could even make NEWT students cry. And if all of the rest worked out – not his private but his professional life – he would be teaching again by the beginning of the coming year. And maybe, he thought, he could still make those Uni students cry. Actually, he didn't doubt that he could. But making someone who was in his head, who had been one of the first to re-emerge after his Occlumency-fit, wasn't on. He couldn't.

He had never made Lily cry. At least not that he knew off. Maybe his one remark had done it – but then again, she hadn't shown him one weakness ever. She hadn't been the same as Granger was and he liked that particular fact. More than he cared to admit.

He had made Eleanor cry (even though he hadn't been aware of it at the time and hadn't, at the time, understood why she had cried over him) and understanding that had hurt. Hurt a lot. Not that he cared more for Granger than he did for Eleanor, but...still.

He had to get to the bottom of this. And the only way to find out what it had really been was – her. She had to tell him. They wouldn't have to talk about that but he would have to observe her. And his entire plan was, while jumbled around, in his head again.

He couldn't reply to anything Potter said without any real confirmation before his eyes, so he only sipped his tea and looked at the two idiots sitting opposite him.

The child looked – odd though. Like a spitting copy of him. Well, he hadn't looked like that when he had been this young (he had been, as one or two photos could attest), he had been more chubby and with a head of curly hair. Not that he wanted to be reminded of that time. But the pup, the metamorphmagus pup looked like him and Severus couldn't take his eyes off him for a while.

When he scowled, the toddler tried to scowl. When he arched his eyebrows, the pup did. When he raised his finger on the table, the child did as well. This was rather – interesting. And entertaining.

He hadn't been around small children. True, he had seen the wolf's child a few times when Granger had seen Aideen and had brought him with her but other than that...no children. Did all children mimic what you did? Curious. When he smirked, the child smirked and it looked rather like his. He grimaced and the child grimaced.

Potter sniggered and that ended all games he had been playing with the pup. Had almost forgot, for a second, that those two idiots were sitting there with him. Observing him.

Well, he figured, if Granger truly felt something for him and if he could, somehow, convince himself, or could be persuaded (not that it possibly needed a lot to persuade him), those two were a major obstacle. They were her friends. And their opinion, as stupid as it was, probably mattered to her. A lot. But if he entertained the pup, and the pup was loved by both Weasley and Potter, he could just maybe sway their opinion on him. If it needed to be swayed.

"I'm home. Boys, really, one more grumpy till person who tells me snarls at me because she hates her job, and I'll never go shopping again. Nobody's friendly any..." she stepped into the kitchen, and looked rather – nice. Good. Beautiful. Yes.

"Snape," she said breathlessly, staring wild-eyed at him.

"Granger," he stood up from his chair and tried to, well, he did try to smile encouragingly at her. Didn't quite work.

"We'll just...Teddy's toys," said Potter and dragged the pup and Weasley basically from the kitchen as Granger dumped a few bags on the table, in front of him and enlarged them to even bigger size.

She unpacked silently, didn't look at him, didn't say anything. Just unpacked her groceries. And yes, he had to agree. She looked a little off and a little tired. But she hadn't looked at him after that first breathless exclamation of his name. Astonishing that the idiots had vacated the kitchen so willingly but he didn't doubt for one moment that they had found means to listen in on their conversation. Not that there was a conversation to begin with.

Whenever he went to the shops with Eleanor, she made him help put away the things they had bought. And Granger had bought rather a lot. The quicker she put the things away, the quicker she had to look at him. Couldn't avoid his eyes and with ease, he moved around the kitchen and grabbed a packet of cornflakes and handed it to her. For a moment, her eyes flew to him, then back to the cornflakes. She nodded briefly and put them away just in time for him to hand her three frozen pizzas. He frowned. Eleanor despised the stuff and so did he. Compared to any reasonable cooking, this was crap and by the way she looked at him, she knew it too.

The bags grew empty and when she turned around again, after he had given her two cartons of milk, he could see how she swallowed.

"Erm," she said, folding the bags neatly, "what are you doing here?"

He was ready for that question. Very, very ready. "I need a wand," he replied.

She nodded. "I don't have one spare though."

"Good answer," he remarked and smirked. Not that she could see him smirk. She just kept on folding and unfolding the bags. "But not the one I was looking for."

"Oh, okay, well then, thanks for stopping by and have fun getting a wand? That better?"

"Hm, no," he shook his head. "The correct answer would be...why don't I accompany you to Ollivander's, Snape?"

"I...what?"

"Go with me," he said.

"Why?"

"Because with you there, the heroic Wizarding public is less likely to lynch me. Or string me up by my toes or other delicate parts of my body," he smirked. "It's an entirely selfish reason and I suppose I could have asked your two idiotic flatmates but..."

"Well, why didn't you?"

He arched his eyebrows, "I am accustomed to your apparating skills. And I think a car, as long as it stays on the ground, would be very much frowned upon in Diagon Alley."

"You could apparate yourself," she argued weakly, still infuriatingly folding the bags.

"I suppose I could," he shrugged. "But then I would still have the problem of having to..."

"Okay, I get it. You don't want to go with Harry or Ron but why go with someone at all? They won't lynch you. They won't kill you or string you up. They look up to you and I assume you have got notice from the Ministry that a wand is okay again?"

"In a matter of speaking, yes," he replied and clenched his hands into fists. She was stubborn. She didn't want to go. Maybe those two were right but...oh no. No, they were right. The trouble with Granger was much more familiar than he had thought it would be. Shutting people out, sticking to the very familiar, keeping away from those that could potentially hurt you. How apt. How very, very apt.

"I want you to go with me," he said clearly.

She shook her head.

"I'm asking you to please go to Diagon Alley with me."

She shook her head again. "No, Snape. I..."

"Please," he repeated and felt utterly ridiculous. Begging a woman to do anything. Had never done this in his entire life. Not ever. Not once. And here he was – uncertain still whether she was worth it at all. Most likely she was but most likely didn't mean that he was entirely certain.

"I couldn't..."

He had enough of this folding bags, unfolding bags, not looking at him. She was no coward. He knew she wasn't. He reached out to her and in slow motion, he brought his finger to her chin, tipping it up, making her look into his face. She wasn't crying. That, alone was positive. But she looked rather confused and he could feel her shiver slightly. Ah. Well, that was truly interesting. Touching her made her shiver. He tried another smile, then reached out with his other hand until it touched hers and as he had done before for their last apparition, he laced his fingers through hers, squeezing gently.

"Go to Diagon Alley with me," he said and surprised himself by how gentle he sounded. If she said no now, he would leave. He wouldn't look back and he would give up trying to try to fall in love with someone. He would, then, definitely, not even try to try, if she refused now. He would let go off her immediately and would leave this house, get back to his car and drive back home, without a wand. He didn't need one for his life without the possibility of her in it. If she didn't want to go with him, she would most certainly be ashamed to be seen with him. And that was something, he couldn't possibly live with. Not ever.

Slowly, her eyes searched his face and then she nodded, squeezed his fingers in turn. "Okay," she said and smiled weakly. "If you want to go with _me_."

He nodded sharply. "I think I said so before."

She nodded again and without letting go off his hand, she walked towards the kitchen door and through it (miraculously, no sign of the two idiots), through the corridor and out the front door before she looked around, looked at him, and apparated with him clinging to her hand.

.

She wondered if he was messing with her brain again. Coming there, to her home, being absolutely silent, then helping her unpack her shopping, then wanting to go to Diagon Alley with her and her alone? It was disconcerting, or at least had been until the moment that he had tipped her head up to him and looked into her eyes.

She had been lost for a moment and she hadn't been able to control the shiver that had run through her at such a contact. Just a finger, remaining on her chin, forcing her to stop looking at the dirty shopping bags and it was all it took to make her shiver and make her knees wobbly.

And then, to completely tip her world askew, he had taken her hand again. His fingers, strong and warm, between hers. This was...not even he could be so evil to mess with her like this. Not even him.

Or maybe...

Particularly not him. The way he had looked at her and had said, "Go to Diagon Alley with me." What chance did she stand? He would break her heart, and would do so without even knowing he did. He would just crush her and she let him. Pathetic. She was truly pathetic. Had acted like a bloody lovesick puppy back in the kitchen when he only wanted, selfishly, her help. Only because he didn't want to go alone.

Well. If that was what he wanted. She could act normally. She talk to him. She could help him find a wand and she could most certainly help him fight off any lovestruck witches who admired his brooding, dangerous aura. They were more likely to encounter those anyway than anyone who wanted to kill him – but he couldn't know that.

She took a deep breath, shut the feeling of his hand holding hers completely away in a box in her brain and apparated them to the corner of Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. She didn't do this for any particular reason. Just because she knew that they were less likely to land on top of someone there.

She felt dizzy the moment she landed but Snape wouldn't let go off her hand. He stood there, very still and very erect next to her and the only thing that seemed to move was...no. He couldn't. He didn't. Not possible.

She focused her attention on her hand, the hand he was holding. This couldn't...he was stroking her bloody hand. He was moving his thumb along her skin. Was stroking her hand. Hallucination, bad dream, reality, she wasn't sure.

Nevertheless, she shot him as bright a smile as she could and disentangled her hand from his, letting it fall limply to her side, the skin tingling where he had stroked it and held it.

"Let's just..." she began and nodded her head towards the spot where Ollivander sold his wands.

She looked at him again, his eyes burning on her. He smiled and it wasn't malicious or evil or anything else. He just smiled warmly at her and his hand twitched in the way that it brushed against hers. Or maybe he had moved his hand on purpose to have it touch hers. There was nothing she could do to prevent the blush from creeping up her neck to her face and he saw it. All of it. The entire blush and he didn't smirk at her, he didn't laugh at her, he didn't even say anything. He just looked at her curiously and began walking. Nothing more. Nothing less.

.

_**Thank you! I'm very sorry I cannot reply to reviews individually at the moment. It's either writing or replying and I suppose most of you will prefer me to write chapters. At least I hope so. **_

_**(So, DH. No spoilers. Just a genuine: I liked it.)**_


	85. Right Ear Advantage

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_An experiment is possibly in which a subject sits with a set of earphones on and is given two different sound signals simultaneously, one through each earphone. For example, through from one earphone comes the sound _go _or_ dog_, and through the other, at exactly the same time, comes the _sound da _or_ cat. _When asked to say what was heard, the subject has come to be known as the right ear advantage for linguistic sounds. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

The shop still looked the same. So many years had passed and Ollivander had certainly seen a lot of things but it hadn't changed at all. It was crammed full with little boxes and a rickety chair stood in one corner. His mother had taken him back then, furtively, by train. Long journey and she had a big problem explaining their long absence to his father. Not that it had mattered to him then. All that had mattered, back when the world had been so young and almost innocent, it had mattered that he had a shiny new wand fizzing in his pocket. He had to hide it, yes, but it was there and he could feel its warmth.

Much like he could feel her warmth now, her hand close to his, unmoving even though she walked. He wasn't sure what he felt about this. About this rush towards her. It was, he realised, a sudden rush. It was something that had begun to slowly creep forwards...basically when she had hung her hair in his soup. Not that he liked her, for heaven's sake, no, but the fact that she was still there and had no trouble to sit next to him and accept what he had done. He wasn't sure when exactly but he knew he didn't want anyone else by his side while he was choosing his second, first wand. Not even Eleanor and that was saying a lot.

The people in Diagon Alley, he noticed, all stared at them as they had made their way quickly to Ollivander's. Some had looked like they had wanted to pull out their wands and kill him on sight and others had just...stared. With open mouths.

But – he was there to buy a wand, and nothing else. And Granger even had some Galleons left that she gave him for his Pounds. He probably wouldn't have survived Gringott's. Or maybe he would have.

No matter. He had to focus on the wands and on the little man that grinned at him now as he came towards him.

"Mister Snape," he said kindly, much kindlier than he had expected, hoped for, deserved. "Ebony and dragon heartstring."

Severus nodded and he felt her shift slightly towards him.

"And Miss Granger. Vine wood and dragon heartstring was your first and now it's unicorn hair and..."

"Oak," she smiled shyly.

"Ah yes, a walker between the worlds now, isn't that right?" the old man said wisely, making Severus look at her a little strangely but she only nodded.

"We're here for," she began but was interrupted by Ollivander.

"Mister Snape's new wand. I've been expecting you. It's a shame about the old one. It was rather a masterpiece of mine, I must say. But still, the Ministry wanted to show their power and they did. Shame it took them so long to realise that...oh but I'm babbling," he smiled.

His head spun slightly. Maybe it was a delayed after-effect of the apparition. Or maybe it was the smell that brought back so many memories. Or maybe it was her, standing so close that her elbow touched his arm.

"Shall we try this one?" Ollivander asked, summoning a box to him. "Chestnut and phoenix feather, 12 inches. Swishy."

He took the wand in hand and there was absolutely nothing. No feeling at all. No magic surging through him and if he hadn't experienced his Occlumency, and with only that wand, he would have possibly never believed that he had his magic back.

"Obviously not," the wandmaker said. "This one then. Ash and Phoenix tail, 13 inches, swishy."

There was a slight fizz. Just a little and enough for a tired red spark to erupt from it. But he had got better results with Granger's wand.

"No, not that one either," Mister Ollivander grumbled and pulled magically three more boxes from the shelves. Fir, conifer, cherry with various cores, none for him. Five more boxes appeared, then ten. The entire desk was littered with open boxes and wands lying in them and he could even see her next to him getting a bit impatient.

"Not to worry, not to worry, we will find the right one yet," Ollivander tried to sooth and summoned another ten boxes. And none of them gave more than a few tired sparks.

He was tired, he was exhausted and truth be told, he was a little disappointed. His first wand had found him almost right away. There hadn't been a lot of waving around at all.

"Oh," the wandmaker said suddenly and stormed into the back of his shop, rummaging around.

"I'm sure he will find something. Or that the wand will find you," said Granger softly and was smiling at him. She rather lit up as she smiled and he wondered, briefly, whether she had lost her shyness now. Whether she lost her inacceptance of the way he had wanted to touch her and her hesitation. Maybe she understood now that he truly wanted her to be there with him. Not because he needed the protection, but because he wanted to spend time with her. And this task, she mastered perfectly. She wasn't grumpy at the long wait and only annoyed for him. Not for herself.

"Mister Snape, I think this is the one for you," Ollivander came back, panting and breathless. "Beech and dragon heartstring."

Reverently, Severus took the wand and as he waved it, out came three tired and gloomy looking sparks.

"I doubt it," he said snarkily.

"I can see that," the wandmaker replied less politely.

"Would it help if we went for a cup of tea or a cup of coffee or anything in the meantime and came back later?" offered Granger and he was close to hitting her. He would not leave without a wand, wouldn't go out there without being able to protect himself – and her – and she...but she smiled at him and he understood. She hadn't said it to drag him away but because she could see his temper rising dreadfully and his own frustration growing steadily and magnificently.

Suddenly, Mister Ollivander laughed. A bark of a laugh, rich and loud and clear and completely unsuiting for a man of his statue.

"How could I forget," he muttered and a dusty box flew towards him. Even dustier than the rest of the boxes. "Rosewood and unicorn hair. 11 ½ inches, flexible but not swishy," he presented Severus the wand with a flourish. It looked beautiful but so had most of the others. This was the darkest red imaginable. Almost black with only a slightly red sheen to it and as he held it between his fingers, there was a rainbow of sparks and the fizzing warmth cursing throughout his body.

This was his wand.

"I think that's it," Granger said gently and very softly and she smiled at him.

Yes, this was it. It felt even warmer than he remembered his old one feeling and much much much warmer than hers had felt. He looked at her steadily, looked through her smile and saw that she was genuinely pleased. There was something else, yes, a kind of fear or worry, but the smile overshadowed all of it.

He paid the wandmaker who seemed to be extraordinarily pleased with himself and with his new wand, stuck into his pocket (not his sleeve where he had worn his former one), he left the shop, Granger trailing slightly behind him.

"Well?" she asked and her smile was almost, but only almost, gone. "The apothecary while we're here?"

He couldn't take his eyes off her. Was he that predictable? Possibly. Or she had learned why he had wanted magic. Why he wanted to be who he had been. Maybe she understood him. But only maybe.

"I think that, yes, the apothecary," he replied and let his hand hang dangerously close to hers again. It was warm and it radiated warmth and he knew she was there. Not that he needed the protection now, but he wanted her there. And rightfully because, right at this moment, a person, a former student of his before Granger had come to Hogwarts came towards him and if he hadn't lived the past one and a half years as a Muggle, he would have drawn his wand immediately.

Prunella Mackintosh. That had been her name. Average student. Boring. Had gone on to work for Madam Malkin's afterwards.

"Professor Snape!" she exclaimed loudly and almost run the last two steps towards her. "You're back and you have a wand and Hermione Granger is with you!"

He only looked at her and was careful not to look at Granger at the moment. They always used those you liked to hurt you. They always used those closest to you.

Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to take her with him, to make her go with him. She would definitely be associated with him now and as such, clearly, just as in danger as he was.

"Miss Mackintosh," he nodded his head.

"Oh, it's Atkins these days," the woman smiled broadly. "I just saw you there and wanted to thank you."

Hufflepuff.

He arched his eyebrows.

"For saving us all. I mean I wasn't really ever terribly in danger but a lot of my friends were and I know how much you sacrificed and it is a terrible pity they took your magic. Until a few weeks ago."

"Until a few weeks ago?" Granger asked.

"Yes, don't you read the Prophet?"

He shook his head and from the corner of his eye, he saw Granger shake her head too.

"It was quite the large item, actually. Front page. The Ministry has given in to public opinion and given you your magic back," the woman simpered and he had to look over at Granger.

Granger looked just as surprised as he did and the little wrinkle between her eyes could almost be described as adorable. Almost. "I didn't know," she muttered softly and he didn't doubt a word of it.

"Will you go back to teaching as the article suggested?"

"Excuse us, Mrs, erm..."

"Atkins," she offered helpfully, smiling broadly.

"We have to leave," Severus continued and kept his eyes on Granger. She, in turn, was scanning the area they stood at and stood very still. Her wand, he saw from the corner of his eye, was drawn and she kept it ready, concealed, of course. He followed her gaze and about two dozen people were all looking at them and advancing. Coming towards them. His eyes widened a little and he knew that he had sort of unlearned to hide his emotions completely but he tried to remain mostly calm and quiet and his hand was very close to Granger's. If this was too much, he would have to try to apparate both of them out. Two dozen or more. Coming towards him. All with – smiles on their faces.

"I could just..." Granger hissed sharply by his side.

"No, wait what they want," he said, his wand in his hand tingling and fizzing and wanting to let him do magic. Wanted him to hex someone or just cast a spell. Granger's wand seemed to twitch as well.

"Professor Snape!" someone from the crowd shouted and even more seemed to gather. Wizards and witches and their children. All moving towards him, coming too close for comfort. He was only a person who had bought a wand. And they all smiled and seemed rather – happy – to see him. Why should they be? Weren't they supposed to kill him on sight? He had killed their figure of the light. He had done unspeakable things. He had let the Carrows torture children. Children! Children, for fuck's sake. He had children under his care and they had come to harm. He had allowed that. And those people let their children now close to him. Smiling. Smiling. Why?

"What's happening?" he asked Granger softly.

"I told you they were demonstrating for you. No lynch mob here," she said but her voice sounded rather strained.

"Professor Snape, will you run for the Ministership now?" another one from the crowd shouted and suddenly, a red-head emerged from it. A red-head he knew and had cursed more than once in his life. Granger's posture slacked a little now and she seemed to smile at the Weasley.

"Erm, I have no idea what kind of title is appropriate now," said the Weasley. George. Grinned. Lifted his hand. Towards him.

"Just call him Snape, it'll do fine," Granger joked by his side.

"Mister Weasley," he said steadily and rather slowly, gingerly and carefully, he took George Weasley's hand.

"Thank you," George Weasley said and grinned lopsidedly. "My parents wanted to come visit you as soon as they heard from Harry that you lived back in your own home still but we all managed to persuade them."

Severus shook his head. "Excuse me?"

The Weasley laughed. "You see, my father...no, it's a long story and it's better I don't tell you all of this here but we just want to thank you. Hermione never said a word but Teddy mentioned you the other week and Mum is just a dab hand at finding out what others don't tell her. And they want to thank you," he shrugged. "I suppose I can do it just as well here. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not thanking you for the loss of my ear," he chuckled. "Nor for...well, but the big picture. We were all wrong and..."

"Stop," he said immediately. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't deserve their thanks. He didn't deserve it at all. He didn't want it. He wanted to...he wanted to go back home and to Eleanor and Draco and the things he knew. Not this mob, shouting 'We want you for Minister, Professor Snape.'

He wasn't a professor anymore. And he certainly couldn't be fit to be Minister of Magic. He was marked. Marked.

Granger made a sort of shushing noise towards Weasley and he suddenly nodded, understandingly and shook his hand once more.

"Look, I will tell Luna to run an article. She owes me for...erm, last night," he grinned and the tips of his ears went bright red. "Nothing special. You know, just saying that the Ministry gave you your magic back and that you just want to be left in peace. She can write this nicely. I know she can. She's wonderful, don't you think? A bit weird but I love that about her..."

"You and Luna?" Granger asked breathlessly.

"Erm," Weasley blushed. "Yeah, but you know, just for the last few, erm, three months, two weeks and eleven days or so. So we're still keeping it a bit quiet. But...I can do that."

Severus arched his eyebrows. "Make sure you tell her to write that it wasn't the Ministry who gave me my magic back."

"Snape!" Granger exclaimed loudly, enough for the crowd around them to be silent for a moment.

"She did? Really? Hermione? Really? You? Why did the Prophet then...?"

"Come over to Grimmauld Place tonight and bring Luna and I'll tell you. Not here," Granger shook her head quickly and the crowd, according to her quiet words, came closer still. Closing in on them, really. He stiffened again.

"I will," he glanced over his shoulder, "Look, I think you should..."

.

He was stiffening. He was feeling uncomfortable. She knew that as soon as they had left Ollivander's with his new wand and there were people coming towards him. He disliked the crowds and she had realised that. Obviously, he knew it too, or why else would he keep his hand so close to hers? They were barely touching, but she could feel the warmth from his hand and, despite everything, she enjoyed this. She would have to have this, keep this. Forever. It was possibly all she could get from him even if he seemed to be so forward. It was nothing more than a dream. She didn't want him to be nice to her at all anyway. It was too confusing and she had already made a mistake while being so confused about it and she regretted her thing with Ian. Much.

Still, somehow, she felt responsible for him. She had brought him here. She had apparated him there. She had been the one who had given him the magic back and she was the one who had made it even possible for him to be there.

His hand was so close and George smiled so encouragingly and she just grasped his hand, feeling him, for only a second, squeezing her hand before she focused on her apparition.

He clung to her and she clung to him. They clung together and she liked his hand in hers. She didn't think it would ever happen again and she tried to memorise everything. The veins at the back of his hands. His thumb resting against her thumb and each finger entwined with hers. His hand was still warm and soft and calloused at the right places and so strong and steady.

She had, unconsciously, not apparated to his garden but in the middle of his living room which she remembered quite well despite the fact that she hadn't been in there quite so often.

"Sorry," she said immediately. "I aimed for your garden," she smirked. This was getting too tense. Even for her own taste. "But you know what my apparating-skills are like."

He hadn't, yet, let go of her hand and he came to face her, still holding on to her.

"Yes, they are excellent," he replied without the slightest mocking in his voice and this, despite her trying to lighten her mood. This was getting too much for her. Truly too much.

"Look Snape," she said, wrenching her hand from his, and deciding, for once, on the entire truth. All that had been bubbling inside of her right now was coming to the surface. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing but I don't like it at all. Just leave me be. You wanted to...you wanted me to come along and I just did but please, Snape, please, just...you have to know...and I..." she shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. "Don't..."

She turned around, away from him and was ready to apparate away, from the middle of his living room but his hand in hers – in hers – stopped her and he spun her back to him, spun her basically into his embrace and she fell against him.

"I don't think I want you to go," he said throatily and both his arms went around her and he looked down at her just as she looked up. "I really don't want you to go now, Granger."

.

_**Thank you!**_


	86. Slip of the Tongue

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_A type of speech error is commonly described as a slip-of-the-tongue, which often results in tangled expressions as such a _long shory stort_ (for 'making a long story short') and _the thine sing_ (for 'the sign thing') or word reversals, as in use the door to open the key and a fifty-pound dog of bag food. This type of slips is also known as a Spoonerism, as the Rev. William A. Spooner an Angilcan clergyman at Oxford Universit, who was renowned for his tongue-slips. Most of the slips attributed to him involve the interchange of two initial sounds, as when he addressed a rural group as _Nobel tons of soil_, or described God as _a shoving leopard to his flock_, or in this complaint to a student who had been absent from classes: _You have hissed all my mystery lectures_. Using this typoe of interchange of forms for comic effect, Oscar Wilde switched the words work and drink to produce the memorable _work is the curse of the drinking classes_.  
_

(Yule, 1996)

.

"I don't think I want you to go," he said. "I really don't want you to go now, Granger."

Hermione doubted she heard him correctly. Hermione doubted her own hearing but those arms around her, those hands on her back and those fingers stroking her left little doubt. Was he still messing with her? Was he still toying with her?

If she had any knowledge of human nature at all, if she could trust herself to read even the unreadable Snape enough – she would have to say, no, he didn't toy with her. There was honesty in his eyes, and a burning something she couldn't identify. She wanted to look away, she really did but it didn't work. The moment she wanted to avert her eyes, there was a new aspect to his eyes. A browner shade of black? Bigger pupils? She wasn't sure what she had seen but she had seen something. Or maybe, it was just the thumb rubbing over her spine.

"Snape, why...?" she tried to ask and her voice sounded broken even to her own ears.

The next second, or maybe the next millisecond, she couldn't see his eyes anymore. The only she saw were...no. Nothing. Her eyes were wide open but...

There it was. Suddenly, his hand in her hair and he pulled her head closer and the next moment, the next blink of an eye, there was a strange feeling on her lips. No, not strange. Warmth. Pressure. Insistence. There was nothing else.

Snape was kissing her and she found herself with her eyes wide open clutching at him and holding him and she was, just the blink of an eye later, kissing him back and her eyes were closed and there was only fire and light and music and pressure on her lips.

She didn't understand but she didn't want to. Understanding it would mean...no. She wanted to stop thinking. Snape was kissing her. That was all that mattered. He was kissing her with strength and abandon and...it felt dreadfully wonderful.

.

There was something about the way she looked at him. The way she seemed to want to memorise what his eyes looked like. There was something irresistible. Something he couldn't and wouldn't fight against. Spectacularly wonderful and horrifyingly scary. He didn't know which but he knew how to break the pressure and he had to do it. He felt compelled to do it. He couldn't resist. Not this, not offered like that. Not invited like this.

He let his hand wander up her back into the lovely curly mess her hair was after apparition and allowed his fingers to sink into the silkiness, cupping the back of her head and she looked utterly adorable, not understanding, it seemed, what he was planning, wanting to do.

He couldn't describe the exact feeling he had when her lips touched his for the first time but he had to close his eyes and let the sentiments overwhelm him. Had to memorise it in case she ran screaming the next second. He had to taste as much of her as he could and feel as much of her as he could and he held her tightly against him and he felt her clutching his back and opening her mouth to him. He could sense her giving into the kiss and internally, a little bit of him jumped up and down for joy and slapped his own back for kissing her – but that feeling was gone a second later, or the blink of an eye later when she put more pressure in the kiss and her tongue swept into his mouth and a sweet nothing of a sound escaped her throat.

She wanted this, he realised. Just as much as he wanted it, she wanted it and this was the wrong kind of kissing for...if there was a wrong kind of kissing and she seemed to enjoy the rather forceful way of doing it. Her hands were sneaking up to his shoulders and his one hand, the one not cupping the back of her head, sneaked down towards her delicious looking bum.

Suddenly, she pulled her lips from his and the warmth of her tongue playing with his was deeply missed. Her eyes were wide and open again and she looked at him, her breathing laboured.

"Snape..."

"Granger, stop thinking," he growled and pulled her back to him, knowing this was the chance for the kiss she ought to be given now. There would be – he hoped – more time for a kiss like the one they had just shared. This one should – he hoped – win her over. Make her understand that he, at least, wanted to get to know her better. Didn't want her staying away from him.

He wanted to make her understand that she was the only anchor that had kept him in Diagon Alley earlier. Without her, he would have apparated away as quickly as possible, even risking splinching himself. He wanted her to know, and hoped he could let her know without telling her, that she had been the one he had trusted there. She was the one he wanted around. Not anyone else. Her. All of them had gone insane, it seemed and she was the one who saw him for who he was. She knew the truth and she knew him. He just hoped he could convey this much.

Slowly, he cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs along her soft skin as he pulled her lips closer and bent down and brushed his lips over hers slowly, fleetingly, gently, softly. He could see how her eyes were open and the surprise in her eyes and he watched as they fluttered close as he touched her lips with his again, as he let the tip of his tongue sneak out of his mouth and brush against her lower lip. He heard her sigh as he pulled her lower lip between his lips.

He kissed her slowly. He played with her, yes, but only for her pleasure and for his. He would otherwise never play with her. After this, after her answering him with her own tongue and lips and teeth, he knew he wouldn't have to listen to the Weasley boy at all. He would do all in his power to never hurt her.

A woman who could kiss him like this – a woman who _did_ kiss him like this – deserved nothing but the best protection and the most he could give.

.

Her head was spinning and her breath came raggedly. Her lungs felt on fire and her skin tingled. Her lips burned and all of her muscles seemed to be completely loose or relaxed or non-existant.

She couldn't remember to have ever been kissed like this. What Snape had just done was...basically making love to her mouth. Or the lower portion of her face. She was dizzy. Overwhelmed and...then again, she could feel herself thinking with a clarity she hadn't felt for a long time.

He wasn't playing with her. He wasn't toying her.

Or if he did, he was a damn good kisser and a damn good actor to boot. No. Nobody could be so cruel and least of all him. Strange how perception could change during a short span of time but she wasn't sure whether she could state one single time when he had deliberately hurt anyone – since coming to live as Muggle that was. Certainly not before.

Somehow, she found herself smiling a little awkwardly at him.

"I, erm," she licked her lips absent-mindedly, his taste lingering on them and tingling from the pressure and the soft caresses and...everything.

"Yes, Granger?" he growled.

"I...just..." she took a deep breath. "I think...I nee..."

"Yes?"

"Are you..." she stopped herself again. What a ridiculous thing to do. Being snogged basically within an inch of her life, those two kisses being more exciting that the entire half hour or so with the idiot Ian...Shite. "I, Snape, I have to think," she said rushedly. "And George's coming over later and...I..." she sighed. "I, erm, will email you later? Or call? Would that be okay? I mean..."

He had the audacity to smile at her. Not smirking, not sneering, just smiling. As he had before and it completely unarmed her. All of her.

"Call, Granger," he said and his smile vanished ever so sightly.

"I will. After George leaves? It might be late though, I wouldn't want to disturb you and all..."

"If you don't want to call, don't call," he said stiffly. "But I will be up quite late," he mumbled the last part and she had difficulty even hearing him.

"I will call then," she said. "Erm, talk to you later then?"

He nodded shortly and she smiled at him now. "Thank you for..." she nodded. "Thanks it was...Oh for heaven's sake."

Hermione rushed into his arms again and pressed her lips on his once more. It was awkward and it was stiff and it was weird but after a moment, there was the familiarity, the wonderful pressure, the dreadful excitement again. Mixed, this time, however, with the guilt she felt over...Ian. Stupid her. Stupid, stupid, stupid her.

She pulled away, drank in the sight of him standing there with his eyes still closed and his tongue sweeping out to lick his own lips and apparated without saying another awkward word.

.

She was confused, he could tell. Hell, he was confused. He had just gone and kissed a woman. Without thinking about it for months and without worshipping her from afar or being worshipped by her from afar for a while before. And she had kissed back. Silly woman. Silly woman had him. It had been the sweetest kisses and it had confirmed all that he had thought possible. He would, could, one day, love her. He knew he would, just as he knew that his name was Severus Tobias Snape and that he needed to wipe that silly grin of his face before he faced Eleanor to show her a few magic tricks with the wand. Otherwise, he would never hear the end of it. Eleanor would know and Eleanor would find out the last details if he let anything show.

Stupid, silly grin on his face.

.

_**Yes. Short. Sorry. But I thought this deserved a chapter of its own. I have a few problems (personal stuff) with writing the romantic stuff but I hope this was alright nevertheless. Seriously. 86 chapter. I don't think I've ever thought it would take so long for them to finally kiss. Will you let me know what you thought of it?**_

_**Thanks!**_

_**[And thank you for all the kind comments after last chapter's AN. What really bothered me wasn't the fact that someone didn't like the way I wrote things or that I wrote what I wanted to write but the way it was written, and where. Just come out and tell me to my face, even if you might have to deal with my answer afterwards. I can't stand talk behind my back. I've made very painful experiences with that and...ah well, I'm sure you all did...anyway, she (or he ;)) who squeals the loudest during this chapter gets a dedication.]  
**_


	87. The Rhetorical Question

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_**.**_

_**Squealies definitely go to drumbum999 and RedValkyrie!**_

_._

_The rhetorical question is something of a cousin to the hypophora. While the hypophora asks a question and then answers it immediately, a rhetorical question is one on which the answer is merely implied. Is is used effectively in the following example from John Milton: 'For what can war but endless war breed?' Hypophora offers the writer an opportunity to tell readers something they don't know; a rhetorical question gives the writer an opportunity to highlight something readers do know. _

(McGuigan, 2007)

.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Harry asked without preamble. Just came straight out and said it. Not letting her one minute to compose herself.

Some time during the apparition back to London, the smile had sneaked onto her face. Snape had kissed her. Twice. She had kissed him once. Snape had smiled at her. Snape had kissed her. Snape had hugged her. Snape had held her. Snape had kissed her. Twice. Snape had kissed back when she had kissed him. Snape was a brilliant kisser. Snape had kissed her. Snape had kissed her because...she didn't know why exactly but he hadn't done it to toy with her. He hadn't done it to mess with her head. He had wanted to kiss her and he wanted her to call him. His face had fallen when she had tried to wriggle her way out of it.

Awkward. It had been awkward. Not during the kisses. No. Even her over-active mind had stopped for two seconds or minutes or twenty minutes or so during those kisses but when they had stopped kissing, it had been awkward. It would be awkward. Any new kind of relationship, she had thought rationally, would be like this, started out this way.

Relationship?

She had gasped then and had almost lost her footing.

No matter though, she had thought as she had unwarded the door and unlocked it, she would see. She wouldn't get her hopes up. But one or two of those kisses once in a while, or every day, or every hour, wouldn't really come amiss. Would definitely not be unwelcome. Certainly not. Not at all. Never.

And that had put the smile on her face. Stupid, silly smile that she obviously still wore when Harry and Ted and Ron saw her.

"I'm not smiling," she said, smiling.

"Why are you grimacing then?" asked Ron, his eyes almost twinkling.

"Apparition," she said, smiling still. "George will come over..."

"He's in the kitchen. He said he expected you here sooner..." Ron grinned outright now. "And he told us who you were with as well. Well, no, Luna did that. Did you know those two...?"

"He told you?" she gulped.

Harry nodded and slowly a grin spread on his face as well. "I think I know that kind of smile, Ronald," he said in a mock-Hermione-tone.

"Oh stop it," she laughed now. "I know. And yes, you don't have to ask further. Snape kissed me."

"Hand me the two galleons then," Ron told Harry with a smirk.

"Snape kissed you? He did? Really? You didn't kiss one another, you didn't kiss him, he kissed you? He was the one..." Harry asked, obviously clutching the last straw.

She laughed, shaking her head. "He kissed me. And I will not answer anything more. Seriously. And don't go around telling people."

"Hermione!" Luna came bouncing out of the kitchen, radish-earrings dangling from her wars, half-hidden by her long, blonde hair. "Wow, there are a lot of Geengles surrounding you," she came towards her, waving her fingers through the air as if she wanted to get through a few flies surrounding Hermione.

"I do?" she laughed. This was too funny. All of it. Her lips tingled. Her skin burned where he had touched her and she could almost feel his arms still around her.

"Yes, George, look, so many Geengles," she turned around and seemed to smile softly at George Weasley who blushed slightly and before Hermione could blink, he had his arm wrapped around the little blonde and smirked at Hermione.

"Isn't she marvellous? What's this I hear about Snape? Kissing you? Snape can kiss?"

"Leave it be, I bet he's a wonderful kisser. He always had a few Nargles around him. Just as you have, love," she smiled at George. "And since you're a wonderful kisser, this only leaves one conclusion."

George bent down and with a gentle smile Hermione had never seen on his face, he kissed her. An odd match, she thought, but that was based on love and adoration. That much was obvious. She smiled at them and smiled at herself and just felt ready to fly. It would all, somehow, work out.

If Luna and George could make it work, she saw absolutely no doubt why she and Snape shouldn't.

.

"You're smiling," Eleanor stated with a wry smirk as she put a cup of tea in front of Severus. Damn. He thought he had wiped it off his face and had even left his mobile phone at home. He didn't want to wait for her to call because she wouldn't. And wasn't it rather unmanly of him for wanting her to call him?

He couldn't wait to talk to her and that was stupid. He wanted to get to know her. He wanted to know her hopes for the future, he wanted to know what she dreamed off at night and during the day. He wanted to...his smile had grown again. Had gone silly and stupid. And his thinking had gone silly and stupid. Maybe she had somehow sucked her brain out while kissing her. Not the Dementor's kiss but Granger's kiss. Would fit though, wouldn't he? Oh but he knew that she would appreciate his mind...

"Am I?" he asked, forcing his face back into a neutral, unsmiling mask. But then, remembered something. "I've acquired a new wand," he explained and put the polished, beautiful piece of wood on her kitchen table.

"Really? And does it work?" she smiled proudly at him.

"Sit," he ordered and picked up his wand again, waving it in the direction of her stove and the kettle boiled immediately and flew over to her so she could pluck it out of the air.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "It really works? You're really a fully grown wizard again? You can do everything? The way you used to? With this stick-thing?"

He nodded and put it on the table again. He would grow addicted to it if he held it for too long, he knew. And he'd rather probably get addicted to...not thinking about her now. He was talking to Eleanor.

"Oh that's just..." she rushed around the table, reaching for her back immediately and pressing her hand against it before she pulled him up and hugged him. Tightly. He liked the hug but it wasn't...oh, he wasn't thinking about her. "But you're not going away now, are you?" she asked, muffled against his shoulder.

"No," he said. "I won't move away, I won't go away. I can't go back there," he said seriously.

She pulled back and looked at him quizzically.

"So the wand wasn't the reason why you smiled then?"

He smiled again. Granger came back to him in his mind. Smiling and kissing him and telling him she would call him. A little awkwardly, yes, but she would. He knew she would.

"No," he said and the silly, stupid smile reappeared on his face.

"Oh?" she asked, smirking. "Then? Miss Granger?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, he nodded again and he couldn't stop smiling.

.

She was glad when George and Luna had left at a reasonable time, both so besotted with one another that there wasn't any doubt in anyone's mind about what they were up to afterwards. She was glad when the two of them left and she was even gladder when she could disappear to her room with only a few smirks from her boys. She hadn't expected them to be so lovely about it. Honestly, betting on who would be kissing whom first? Smiling because she was smiling? She would have bet that one or the other would be completely freaking out about it but – no. They were there. Steady and smiling and smirking and just accepting. Odd, that, but she appreciated it. And she knew, deep down, that if this entire thing wouldn't play out the way she wanted it to play out, one of them would console her huggingly while the other would go out hunting for Snape's balls. Somehow, that thought comforted her.

She wondered, for only a moment, whether it was wise to get ready for bed, brush her teeth, put on her jim-jams before calling Snape but she knew instinctively, that she would be way more relaxed, more open if the touch of make-up was gone and if the bra was gone. She rushed through her routine in the bathroom though and smilingly, settled into her bed, picking up her mobile phone and watched in fascination who her fingers began to tremble as soon as she opened her phonebook.

There he was. In her mobile phone. Snape, the entry said. Just Snape. She liked the name. It was short, it was snappy and somehow, he wasn't Severus yet. Severus had been her head-Severus and she would never, not ever, tell Snape about head-Severus. Not in thirty years or on her deathbed or whenever. She would never tell him about that.

There. She only had to press dial. She only had to do it and her smile vanished and her fingers trembled worse. Screwing her eyes shut tightly, she just pressed, then put the mobile against her ear, settling deeper into her bed, wrapping her duvet tightly around her.

"So you managed to shoo the Weasley boy from the house?" his voice said at the other end of the line and she had to swallow at his tone.

"Yes. And hello to you, too," she said softly.

"Good evening," he replied and his voice sounded so close and so real and she had to close her eyes. She just had to. Remembered every aspect of the kiss.

"How is, erm, the wand working for you?" she asked, stupid question. Stupid, stupid but what else could she say? _Snape, tell me everything about yourself so I can judge whether you truly mean what I felt you meant when you kissed me?_ That would never do.

"Very nicely," he replied. "Did you get a statement for Miss Lovegood?"

"Oh yes," she replied, her eyes opening quickly. "It's basically just an informal blurb-kind of thing. You know, Mister Severus Snape, bla bla, your titles etc, had his magical powers restored by an unnamed person who is not working for the Ministry of Magic..."

"Unnamed person?" he thundered suddenly.

"Erm, yes," she nodded even though she knew he couldn't see her.

"You're not unnamed. Draco is not unnamed," he spat. "Why would you consent to such rubbish?"

"I, er, we thought it would be better. For you and for them. I mean if they knew that Draco and I had a hand in this, the public will immediately..."

"What will the public do?"

"Cry out? Argue?"

"What for? The imbeciles in the Wizarding World did nothing for me," he exclaimed suddenly.

"No, but..."

"You will change that. I want you to have full credit for what you've done," he said sharply.

"I thought you wouldn't...I mean...I misjudged you," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you..."

"You didn't think I would, what?" he asked, sounding gentler.

"You know, let the public know that it was me," she said in a very little voice.

"They saw us together in Diagon Alley, Granger. I don't think anyone not believing the Daily Prophet will reach any other conclusion," he breathed softly. She could hear it through the phone. It sounded almost like he was breathing in her ear and that made her feel happy that she was half-sitting and half-lying in the bed. Otherwise, she feared that her knees would give in again.

"I will tell Luna in the morning," she said then and was silent, listening only to his breathing.

.

A little past eleven, he had decided that he could just as well take the mobile phone up to his bedroom with him and read in bed while waiting for her to call or not and as he had barely finished the first page, his phone had rung softly on the pillow next to him.

Stupid woman didn't want to be credited for the work he had done. For a fleeting moment, he considered that she might feel ashamed of it – but then again, she had gone to Diagon Alley with him for his wand and for the apothecary (which he still had to go to because of the mob that had stopped them from going), and she must have known that someone would see them sooner rather than later. It couldn't be because she was ashamed of what she had done or because of him but because she was modest. Because she was decent.

He could hear the rustle of something through the mobile and wondered if she was in bed as he was, knees propped up, back against two pillows, mobile tightly clutched to the ear. He could hear her breathing and he could almost hear her thinking.

Well, his strategy was clear, at least for the next couple of weeks. He would ask her to go out with him, somewhere nobody knew him, and he would have to make an effort to ask questions – and give answers. He would have to open up just the slightest bit. He would have to.

She was silent and he enjoyed this. She only breathed into the phone and it was almost as if she was breathing in his ear and he thought for a second that he could feel her breath against his cheek.

"Snape?" she asked suddenly.

"Hm?"

"You kissed me," she whispered.

"So I did," he smiled softly to himself, not really wondering whether those kisses were as much on her mind as they were on his. Of course they were. He had made damn sure to give her the best damn kiss he was capable of giving. To put as much intent into the kiss as he could. Intent was always the key...

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Because I wanted to," he said honestly.

"And, erm..."

"Complete sentences, please, Granger. I don't want to go around telling people that the loveliest kiss I've ever been given was from a person who couldn't even build complete sentences. Subject, Verb, Object," he mocked and tried not to sound too cruel.

"Sorry," she said on the other end of the line and he couldn't tell if she was said or felt rebuked or if she had understood his backhanded compliment.

"Erm, do you want to do it again? I mean just for me to be prepared. Flossing and...shite."

"I realise you're the daughter of dentists but isn't this taking it to extremes? Just a little?"

He could hear her smirking even though smirking wasn't usually a very audible action. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Snape, this was a stupid question and I don't even know what came over me. I mean it's not something I'd ask anyone or at all, really. I mean it's a stupid thing to ask and I take it back. Forget I ever asked. Really. Sorry. I mean..." he could hear her blushing this time and he had to interrupt her before she began hyperventilating.

"I probably want to, yes," he said softly and in the tone that he knew had made all his students perk up. Had never failed and didn't fail now.

"Really?" she asked breathlessly.

"Really."

There was another bout of silence and he smiled. He just smiled to himself. "Granger?"

"Hm?"

"You kissed me," he smirked.

"So I did," she laughed at the other end of the line, sounding terribly relieved.

"Do you want to do it again?" he mocked. "I mean just for me to be prepared, flossing and brushing and mouth wash and mouth spray and..."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No," he said quietly. "I don't."

"Oh fu..erm, yeah. Snape, Harry said earlier that your car...I mean Mrs Callaghan's car..."

"I will come pick it up tomorrow. I already received my dressing down for it," he answered quite dishonestly. Eleanor hadn't even noticed yet that her car was missing. And neither had he. He had been too preoccupied and Eleanor had been too happy for him to notice. "And while I'm down there, would," he paused and swallowed the large amount of spit that suddenly had gathered in his mouth, "you like to go to dinner then?"

"I'd love to," she breathed.

"Good," he replied and only noticed now how exhausting it was to talk to her on the phone. He couldn't read her, he couldn't look into her eyes and he couldn't judge anything by her expression. He wanted to see her when he talked to her. Wanted to see how she reacted. That she understood when he tried (and failed) to make a joke. He wanted to see her. Hug her. Hold her. Kiss her. He took a deep breath.

"Are you alright?" she asked, sounding quite worried.

"I am very alright," answered he, knowing it would cost him a lot of nerve and a lot of strength to be open to her but he had to be. He had to be. He had to let her see the real him. He couldn't possibly end up like his parents. Not knowing one another before getting married in a rush and...no, not thinking about them.

"I had a lovely day with you," Granger whispered suddenly. "Not really the mob even though I'm curious why they'd want you as Minister for Magic. Not that I doubt that you could do it and people would certainly look up to you, or not, but..."

"Me? Minister? Are you joking now, Granger? I wouldn't be elected Minister for anything, much less Magic. And I wouldn't want to be."

"Looks like they want you," she argued.

"They also want bound and subservient house elves. And I know with absolute certainty that one of us doesn't agree with that opinion."

She laughed again. Loudly, clearly, happily. "I do appreciate having Kreacher around though," she said quickly. "But I'd feel better if..."

"He will never accept payment. Or anything of the kind and you know it. You should have seen that he likes working with people and for people and that only Regulus's last wish which he couldn't fulfil made him go insane."

"I know but still. Do you think it's right? Seriously, look at it. There are creatures – no pun intended – which live to serve."

"Ants live to serve. Bees. The regular ones anyway. They don't get paid."

"They get food and honey and...they don't get beaten," she cried out.

"No, but as soon as they're useless, they die," he shrugged. "This is beyond your and my capacity to understand. They want to do this. They're happy doing this."

She grumbled and he heard the rustling of something again.

"Granger, are you in bed?" he asked suddenly without thinking about what he should have said or should have kept inside of him. This was curiosity. He wanted to know. He wanted to picture her in his head in one of the old rooms in Grimmauld Place. A room she had surely redone. A bed which...not thinking about that yet. Soon. Not yet.

"Erm, yeah. You?"

"Yes," he said softly and knew that he had never considered saying something like this to anyone else. Never.

"It was just more comfy and I wanted comfy to talk to you," she whispered into the phone.

"I agree," he whispered back.

"And you really want to come down to London tomorrow?" she asked, her voice just as low and soft as it had been before. An erotic voice. Seducing.

"I said so, didn't I?"

"So you did, so you did. Erm, about what time?"

"I have a lecture until three and I should probably...I will be down by seven, if that's convenient."

"It is very convenient," he heard her smile again.

"I'll see you then at seven tomorrow," he said gently, needing to get off the phone as long as they still had something to talk about. Wanted to think about her in peace. Wanted to think about what she would look like in his bed...not yet. Not yet.

Then, suddenly, he decided on another thing. Just a tiny alteration to everything and he hoped that she wouldn't mind.

"Good night, Hermione," he whispered and yes, he heard the echo of a gasp and a deep breath or a sigh.

"Good night," she said back in her seductive, low womanly voice and a second later, she had clicked off, leaving him to stare at his mobile phone with a stupid, silly smile on his face.

.

_**Was quick, wasn't it? Well, the students have been away on work experience and apart from baking christmassy stuff, I had nothing else to do (we don't celebrate Thanksgiving...). Be happy and go squeal! **_

_**Thank you!  
**_


	88. Tense

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_It is often implied, if not actually asserted, that the distinction of past, present and future is essential to the notion of tense and that the future is like the past, except that it follows, rather then precedes, the present in the infinitely extensible unidimensional continuum of time. But the future is not like the past from the point of view of our experience and conceptualisation of time. Futurity is never a purely temporal concept; it necessarily includes an element of prediction or some related modal notion. This does not mean of course that languages could not, in principle, treat predictions as being grammatically parallel with statements about the past or present. But in general they do not; and the so-called future tense of the Indo-European languages (which is of comparatively recent development in many of them) and the so-called future tense of the relatively small number of other language throughout the world that have anything that might reasonably be called a future tense is partly temporal and not modal. Nor is it the case that tense must be based upon a distinction of past and present; it could be based instead upon a distinction of present and non-present, or upon various degrees of proximity t the time of utterance. What is commonly referred to as the present tense, in English and many other languages, is in fact more satisfactorily described as the non-past tense. _

(Lyons, 1977)

.

She was nervous and she looked like she was nervous. The skirt would never do. She was constantly pulling it down her thighs and was constantly checking that it wasn't slipping up or down and she always smoothed it down. It wouldn't make for a comfortable evening if she was constantly fidgeting with her skirt. It would have to be trousers. She'd got so used to wearing trousers. Jeans, slacks, all those things that she had almost forgot how to wear skirts. And her legs looked like goalposts in those shoes as well.

The top was fine. The top was alright. Hinting at cleavage. Flowing softly over her tummy. But the skirt had to go and she had no trousers that matched the top. Not really. It was a skirt-kind-of-top and she knew it. But the skirt was too short and her legs looked like goalposts and...she was nervous.

Hermione flopped down on her bed, not caring that there would be creases in her clothes (because she wouldn't wear those anyway) and almost howled. Yes, she was nervous. Very, very nervous. What did he want? Why did he want it? Where would he take her? What would she do if there was suddenly a menu in front of her and she had to order? Should she eat before? It would possibly be too late for that now anyway but she didn't want to see him how she wolfed down a portion for two.

This was Snape, for heaven's sake, not just some random idiot. This was the man she had...dreamed about for months. Of course she had messed it up by sleeping with Ian but he didn't have to know that and she could always obliviate that fact from her brain.

Glad that she hadn't put any make-up on yet, she threw her hands over her face and made that howling noise again.

"Hermione? You alright?" she heard Harry outside the door.

"Yes!" she snapped and of course he opened the door nevertheless and peaked inside.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," she said huffily.

"Erm, yeah. I don't believe you but for the time being, I'll have to let it lie," he stepped into the room and of course Ted was on his arm. "Actually, I only came to bring you Teddy. Ron's already left and I'll be going in a minute."

"Going in a minute? What? Why?"

"It's Friday, Hermione," he said, frowning. "You said on Monday and on Tuesday and on Wednesday, when I asked you repeatedly if you could watch Teddy for me on Friday that it was alright. Today is Friday, I'm going out and you volunteered to watch Teddy."

"But...but...but...Snape..." she stuttered.

"What?"

"I didn't tell you because...I don't know, but he's coming to pick me up in half an hour. We're having dinner somewhere," she said, blushing slightly.

"Oh," Harry's face fell ever so slightly. "I'll stay here then," he told Ted and kissed the baby's cheek.

"No, no, I didn't mean that, you should go out. You're always with Ted and you need some...I'll just tell Snape that...well, I can't make it," she shrugged and there was blooming pain in her chest. Blooming horribly.

"Erm, no," he shook his head. "You have to go with him. I mean I've got nothing special planned but meeting...someone who isn't someone special," he explained. "Teddy will always come first."

"Exactly," she said and got up from her bed and plucked the baby from his arms. "And this is why you should go. Ted always comes first for you and you need at least a night alone. I'll just call Snape and tell him..."

"Have Kreacher cook something for you," Harry said suddenly. "Teddy will be in bed in an hour at the latest," he sent her a glare which clearly said 'or else', "and Ron will stay at The Burrow overnight and I'll be home late, if I come back today at all, if that's okay and you and Snape can...that skirt looks really lovely on you."

"What?"

"That skirt. Take off your shoes."

"What?"

"Take your shoes off," he instructed once more and because Ted was grinning at her and grabbing her face and kissed her sloppily, she did and stood in stockinged feet on the floor.

"Much better. Trust me. This is the way men would want you to see."

"In stockings?" she asked. "Barefoot?"

"Yes," he nodded viciously. "Take the stockings off. The house is warm enough, greet him like that and he'll do whatever you want to do."

"I won't meet him. Ted..."

"Teddy loves Snape. And Snape played really sweetly with him when he was last here. But as I said, I can always just stay here, I don't mind."

"No, you go. You go now and Ted and I will decide what we do for the rest of the night, right Ted?"

He laughed. "Alright, alright, I'll go then," he kissed his godchild, then Hermione before he walked out of the room and just as he stood outside of it, turned around and smirked at her. "And do take the stockings off. Trust me."

Hermione frowned at Ted. "Taking the stockings off? Or jeans? If I have to stay at home and I don't really think he'd want to stay here with me. And you. I mean I was really looking forward to going out with me. But here? It's too familiar, isn't it?"

"Take off!" Ted shouted in her ear. What that boy repeated and what he didn't was truly odd. She doubted he knew what that implied and what it meant but she shrugged quickly. She could always apply warming charms to her legs. Besides, she honestly doubted that Severus was staying in any case. This house wasn't holding many good memories for him – or couldn't – even though it barely looked like it had been back then.

She sat Ted on the floor and pulled the stockings from her legs.

.

"Are you going somewhere?" Draco asked, looking up from Severus's laptop, quirking an eyebrow.

"Yes," he muttered and glared at his godson.

"Anywhere special?"

"No," he replied. "And you'll leave before I go."

"Can I take the laptop with me? Aideen is out with two girlfriend's who are horrible gigglers," he groaned. "Dunno why she's friends with them really but I'm glad she can go out with someone again. Means she's getting better, right? Anyway, can I take it with me? And where are you going?"

"Nowhere," Severus said snarkily.

"Are you meeting Granger?" he smirked evilly and almost looked like his father.

"And what if I am?"

"Well, Mrs Callaghan's car is still in London," his godson shrugged. "And if you are meeting Granger, I wouldn't wear that jumper. I mean honestly. I know I'm not working in retail anymore but this doesn't suit you at all. Don't you have that black v-neck anymore? Take the dark blue jeans and the jumper. That's much better than this abomination."

"What?"

"This is much too loose. You might be old..."

"You better watch what you're saying," threatened Severus but of course he knew Draco was right. Draco had the eye for clothing. Draco knew what suited him and Draco had been the one to bring him the black v-neck jumper which honestly suited him well.

"I just want...look, you can wear that but if you want anyone to see you, you better not wear this jumper. The jeans are alright but...no. Hoodies are nice but not that one."

Severus grumbled and with a last, parting glare, he took two steps at a time up to his bedroom and pulled the black v-neck from his cupboard and quickly changed out of the rather worn hooded jumper. He didn't want to look in the mirror. He knew what he'd see there. An old-ish man, trying to impress a woman who could easily be his daughter. It was pathetic. But Granger – Hermione – was the only one he could even imagine spending the rest of his sorry life with and so he looked.

Better. Yes. He didn't quite look the part of the old lecher now, but did cut rather an elegant, if understated figure. Nobody could change his face and the hooked nose and the crooked teeth but he was slender and fit and it showed in the black v-neck. It did show.

Now, he only had to throw out his godson and he could be good to go. Early enough to go in little apparition-jumps from Manchester to London.

.

Hermione tapped her bare foot nervously on the tiled kitchen floor. She had applied heating charms everywhere – even additional ones to the already cast ones where Ted usually crawled on the floor – and so it was warm enough for her bare legs. Still, she couldn't deny that she was slightly nervous and wondered what Snape would do. Would he bang the door shut in her face immediately if she told him that she had promised to stay home and babysit or would he laugh at her and tell her that it had all been a joke anyway or would he come in and kiss her again? She would have, naturally, preferred the last option but she doubted it would go this way.

"What do you think, Ted?" she asked the baby who was happily chewing on a wooden toy that Kreacher had made for him.

"Take off!" he shouted very spittingly and then stayed silent, smiling at her.

"I took them off," she rolled her eyes. "I still don't see why Harry said so though. I always thought men liked seeing women wear heels. Not that mine were the highest imaginable. Or even close to that but they were alright. And my legs look worse like this. Seriously. Do you know why your goddaddy said that?"

The boy looked at her and then carefully pulled himself up on a chair and stood on very wobbly legs. "Her-My-Oh-Neeeee, Teddy food," he said solemnly, chewing on his toy. It was a little wooden unicorn, even though Harry had said that it rather resembled a rhino and the Kreacher had very honestly explained that the horn would not hurt the boy or anyone else. She still watched him.

"Would you like something to eat then? A bit of banana? But I thought Harry gave you your supper?"

"No, foooooood!" he explained and with the horn of the unicorn/rhino, pointed at his feet.

"Ah, feet, you mean. Not food. Yes, you're standing on your feet and mine are naked."

"Teddy neckid food too," he said and let himself fall on his bottom and began to pull his socks off.

"No, Ted, no. Don't take them off. You've tiny feet and they need to stay warm. I have big feet...well, normal sized feet really, and they don't get cold so quickly."

"But take off!" he screamed.

"No, you don't," she was looming over him immediately and in the moment when he let out a heart-stopping wail, she pulled him up into her arms and spelled the socks on tightly. The boy, naturally, cried his heart out and she had no idea how to stop it. He was angry, not sad and not hurt but mad at her. And at his socks for being unable to be pulled off.

"Ted, stop, please. Please? You're too loud. Stop it. We can take your socks off later. Not now. Please, not now..."

"Mistress Of-Not-Pure-Blood-At-All, the doorbell rang," Kreacher said from his little corner in the kitchen where he had just popped into.

"Shite. That too," she muttered and wedged Ted under her arm (well, on her arm) and went to the front door with him. His hair was bright, angry pink and his face utterly scrunched up. "Stop it, Ted," she said one last time but the boy was worse than Mrs Black had ever been with her constant insults and shouts. He just wouldn't shut up.

She tried to take a deep breath and tried to ignore Ted, and when both things didn't work, she just opened the door.

"That is a nice greeting," Snape said sarcastically, standing there looking absolutely wonderful in dark blue jeans and a black jumper, the leather jacket thrown over his arm and a lock of hair almost falling in front of his eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said loudly over Ted's screams. "But I had completely forgot that it was my night to babysit Ted. I promised Harry on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and then I thought Ron could do it but he's gone as well and – Ted, shut up now! – "

"Ted Lupin," Snape said suddenly in his classroom voice. A dangerous one and a silky one. Silkily dangerous.

"Sev'wus Snap," the boy had stopped screaming almost immediately and almost immediately, he also looked like Snape again.

"Severus Snape, Mister Lupin. I hope you will remember this," Snape said. "And if you could stop trying to look like me, I'd be very much obliged." He suddenly arched an eyebrow and as she looked down at Ted, he was trying to do the same.

"How do you do this?" she asked slowly, revelling in the silence. Snape shrugged, then stepped into the house, past her. His hand was brushing hers briefly and he looked at her that way again.

"You were saying?"

"Ah, Harry doesn't want Ted to be alone with Kreacher. Well, not that often anyway and I have promised, so if you want to cancel or postpone our, erm, evening, I shall understand," she explained disappointedly. He really looked forbiddenly good. Handsome. Lovely. That jumper suited him and those jeans suited him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Snape said suddenly and stormed right into the kitchen, her behind him and Ted laughing on her arm.

.

He had to stay. He had to make sure that he had the perfect view on her legs. Bare. Bare legs. Bare feet. A natural, easy sway to her hips, accentuated by the skirt that feel just to her knees, hid half of her kneecaps and revealed the other half. Tight skirt. Lovely skirt. Letting him guess the outline of her thighs but only that.

The house elf sat in a corner in the kitchen, muttering to himself and playing with a fork in his fingers. It had always been an old elf from what he remembered from back...then. He just nodded at the elf and the odd one, Kreacher, nodded even a little respectfully back and it was all the permission he needed to try out his new wand. To do what he had always done back...then. He levitated the kettle onto the stove and lit the flame.

"Erm, would you like food? Ted has eaten and I hope he'll be tired in a few minutes or so but..." she had followed him into the kitchen, the pup sitting on her arm, looking like him. He knew the boy (alright, alright) was a Metamorphmagus like his mother had been but did he have to imitate him? Him of all people? Couldn't he make himself look like Potter? To have two James Potter look-alikes?

"Yes," he replied and Hermione stood there with the boy sitting on her arm and suddenly, the idiotic boy raised his little arms towards him and Granger only laughed and somehow pushed that monster towards him.

"He likes you," she shrugged. "And you made him shut up immediately. Would you?"

He grumbled, grumbled a lot and a second later, he had a boy on his arm. In his arms. And the pup – immediately – snuggled (snuggled!) his head against the crook of his neck.

"Teddy tired, Sevwus Snap," the boy mumbled against him.

He was horrified. Why was the boy doing this? And why was Granger grinning like this? It wasn't supposed to go that way. He was supposed to pick her up, she was supposed to wear some shoes (even though he had to admit he preferred it that way – barefoot) and then take her out for a meal, talk to her a bit and maybe, possibly, probably, most likely, kiss her good bye, take the car (or kiss her once more before taking the car) and either shrinking it and taking it with him apparating, or driving home with it. That had been the plan. Not an elf playing with a fork in the corner of the kitchen and definitely not a child on his arm.

"I could take him up," she said softly, smiling at the boy and then at him. That smile, as cliché as it sounded, unarmed him. A smile like this, directed at him...it was almost as if that could do more magic than anything that was left inside of him. He couldn't find the words to properly describe it. Warm, tender, kind, the sort of smile that had never been given to him by any woman before. Not by Lily, not by Eleanor, not by his mother. Never. It was smile for him and her eyes locked on his.

He couldn't take his away even though he could definitely feel some sort of wetness on his neck. Possibly drool. But as long as she looked at him like this, he didn't care at all. He would of course begin to care soon again. But not now. Not now.

"Where's his bedroom?" he heard himself ask and Hermione began to laugh. Not at him, he knew this, she just laughed. Beautifully.

"Upstairs next to Harry's. It's, erm, I'll bring you up."

.

Her heart. Her poor heart. Either he was a complete, absolutely, cunning, astonishing, taking-it-to-new-extremes Slytherin and he was doing this to actually make her like him even more, or – and she hoped it was the case – he didn't mind bringing Ted to bed so he could have some time alone with her.

Not that he cuddled Ted. Quite the opposite in fact. He talked sternly to him, told him sternly that he had to sleep now and Ted listened to him intently, hugged him (and he let himself be hugged by the boy!) and closed his eyes. Just like that. Ted just lay down and snuggled his cuddly Griffin and didn't complain. Nothing.

She could only stare at him in astonishment. Snape, not Ted. Ted didn't see that she was staring. She couldn't figure him out. Was he the master-Slytherin who wanted her to like him or had he only done this to do her a favour, to make sure they had time together? Had he done it for Ted? Or her? For himself? She didn't know and she didn't dare to ask.

He still looked at her as she dimmed the light and stepped carefully out of the room. Ted had never even asked for his bedtime story and she would have, most certainly, liked to listen to him read. Oh. Yes. She would have liked that.

Shaking her head slightly to herself, she hadn't noticed how he had stepped up behind her and put a hand, rather softly and gingerly, on her right hip.

"If you send the elf to do a chore or another, I could show you how my culinary skills have improved," he whispered so close to her ear. She stiffened and shuddered at the same time and had to slightly lean against him. Her back against his chest and it loosened her lungs or maybe something else and she felt that breathing deeply was so much simpler now. She could smell him. It wasn't any specific spell but she knew it was him and she remembered the way he smelled like and she inhaled deeply, trying to burn that further into her memory.

Truth be told, Hermione still didn't quite believe that it was all as good as it seemed. Snape kissing her just the day before, Snape taking Ted off her hands and Snape putting the child to bed. Snape putting his hand on her body and Snape allowing her to lean against him in the darkened corridor or Grimmauld Place.

She turned her head and saw his eyes glittering at her, and the corners of his mouth twitching upwards into a semi-smile. One of those little, not-quite-smiles that she had grown used to seeing on his face. The kind of expression that made him look young and handsome.

And still, there was something nagging inside of her. "You won't complain about my hair getting in the way?" she asked, turning her head away from him and contemplating stepping away from his hand.

"Not at all," he told her softly and with his free hand, touched her hair. "It's rather nice that way."

Arching her eyebrow, almost convinced that this was still a Slytherin-ploy, quite unable to believe that this was all happening, that Snape was making compliments, she pushed his hand from her hip and turned around to face him fully.

"Don't lie," she said. "I can deal with rudeness and mocking remarks but lies I don't..."

"I don't lie, Hermione," he told her earnestly. "Why should I? There is no reason for it these days."

She couldn't tell if he was actually telling the truth or not but she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he was telling the truth, that he was paying attention to her without any scathing, hurtful remarks, without lies. She wanted to believe. She sighed.

"Erm, and you will cook?"

"If there is something in this house to cook with, yes," he answered – but she was too perplexed by the soft brushing of his fingers against hers to really notice what he was saying.

Hermione frowned, then, with closed eyes, called for the house elf.

"What can Kreacher do for Mistress Of-Not-At-All-Pure-Blood?"

"Erm, Kreacher, would you be good enough to check this house for all potion-related things?" she asked kindly, "books, cauldrons, ingredients? Bring everything back to the cellar, would you please?"

Kreacher nodded solemnly and popped away.

"What?" Snape asked suddenly, his hand being pulled away.

"I thought...it would give us some time because there are a lot of places he has to look and I thought you might like to have a cauldron and books again. We don't really brew here and I thought...have I misjudged you again?" she asked, biting her lip.

.

"Have I misjudged you again?" she asked quietly and pulled her lower lip between her teeth. "I didn't mean to but I seem to have it in my head...you know, I have you associated with potions. And I thought that maybe..."

"It is a kind thought," he interrupted quickly before she could babble even more nonsense. But – honestly – why did she not understand that he wasn't there for cauldrons and ingredients and books and certainly not to bring children to bed? Why couldn't she understand that he was there because of her? He would have run as fast as possible had it been any other person with a screaming child on their arm, well, no, that wasn't true. He wouldn't have even shown up, more likely. But she...she didn't seem to get it into her thick skull that he wanted to get to know her and not even those little touches he had to test, he had to feel seemed to convince her. He slowly ran out of ideas. Subtlety was probably lost on her but he couldn't do the direct approach. He couldn't tell her straight out that he wanted to get to know her.

"Shall we go down to the kitchen then?" he asked when she just remained silent.

"Erm, yeah. Let's go and we'll see if there is something to eat. If not, we can always get some take away. The chippy around the corner is rather good," she blushed slightly and it made her look so horribly adorable that he only wanted to take her face in his hands and kiss her. But no, he wouldn't do that. He had to hold back for now. Talking. He had to know how she functioned these days. Which thoughts made her angry, which made her happy. He had to ask question and he had to listen. But first, he somehow had to get her to answer his questions honestly and that seemed the hardest part of all.

She had trusted him with almost everything else – but now she obviously believed he was lying to her. Maybe the touching had been too much. Maybe the whisper in her ear had been too much. He had to tone that down for sure.

"Fine," he said and kept his face as neutral as possible. Tried not to show her that he felt the tiniest bit of disappointment inside himself for not being able to just sit down with her and eat.

.

Not so far away from London, in a rather large house, mansion, manor, some called it, a wizard had decided to bit the bullet and with the old ring his grandmother had been given by his grandfather in his hand, he went down on one knee and looked at the woman sitting there, not quite beautifully but prettily enough on the old settee.

"Gwendolyn," he said as calmly as he looked, "I know we haven't been together for long, but I want to ask you – will you consent to being my wife?"

The not quite beautiful young woman stared at him in astonishment, then cleared her throat. "I will consider it, Lucius," she said. "Under one condition."

"A condition?" the man hadn't expected that.

"Yes, a condition."

"Anything, Gwendolyn-mine," he promised pompously.

"It's just explain one thing. Tell me, why did the P.I. I hired to have you checked out for gold-diggery found no birth-certificate of you at all? Why don't you exist? But why is there a young man living up in Manchester who claims to be your son?"

.

In a rather fancy club in London, a young man fled the scene. He hadn't drunk all that much. Certainly not enough to justify what he had done just now. And it wasn't nearly enough to explain why it had felt good to kiss that young man. The young man wondered whether it was okay to be going home or if it was stupid to barge in on his best friend and the future, or current boyfriend but the young man was so out of sorts that he had enjoyed kissing another young man that he didn't think about it twice and only wanted to go home where it was safe and sane and normal.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(I hate my till-job even more that usual in the weeks before Christmas.)**_


	89. Scripts

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_When more dynamic types of schemata are considered, they are more often described as scripts. A script is a pre-existing knowledge structure involving event sequences. We use scripts to build interpretations of accounts of what happened. For example, we have scripts for what normally happens in all kinds of events, such as going to a doctor's office, a movie theater, a restaurant, or a grocery store as in the example below: _

-I stopped to get some groceries but there weren't any baskets left so by the time I arrived at the check-out counter I must have looked like a juggler having a bad day.

_Part of this speaker's normal script for 'getting groceries' obviously involves having a basket and going to the check-out counter. Everything else that happened in this event sequence is assumed to be shared background knowledge (for example, she went through a door to get inside the store and she walked around picking up items from shelves). _

_The concept of a scripts is simply a way of recognising some expected sequence in an event. Because most of the details of a script are assumed to be known, they are unlikely to be stated._

(Yule, 1997)

.

**This one is dedicated to atomicmom, who made me smile and laugh on a day when I thought I couldn't do either. Thank you so much. I cannot express just how much it meant to me. **

.

He didn't say a word. He knew it was wrong but maybe the books were wrong too and maybe, with a little persuasion, he could work on making his life better without that tiny little experiment. If he flicked his wrist just right, spoke the words with the right intent, and aimed right between her eyes, then petrified her, he would be able to remove her from this place and she would never even remember him. The sex had been good. No doubt. She had the zeal of a younger woman aimed to please and could bend like a Rumanian trapeze artist.

Still, she had found out about his secret and not only about Draco. He wasn't sure what a PI was but if she couldn't even remember talking to some such, the PI would possibly think her insane and let it go. Besides, the Manor would go under the usual enchantments again. It would appear to be just a ruin to everyone.

No matter what, the good sex, the idea that there would be sane, healthy children in the future, it all didn't erase the fact that this woman sitting there, glaring at him didn't even know what defined him deep inside his core.

He raised his wand towards her and, ignoring her stupid questioning and her stupid glares, he flicked his wrist just right. What, he wondered, had he been thinking proposing to that daft bitch? She was nothing like him and their children would be idiots and he would have to lie them, and their mother all the time if he didn't want to reveal the fact that he was a wizard and for some reason, he had never told her and possibly never would. Didn't want to.

Before she could ask where she was, who he was and what was happening, he had aimed his wand at her once more and had her petrified. He would put her under another spell and put her on the golf course during the dead of the night. People would think she had drank too much and had passed out. All fine by him.

Compared to her, Narcissa was an angel. End of story.

.

Harry didn't care that there was talk coming from the kitchen. For all he cared at this moment, Snape could snog Hermione senseless or even shag her on the...no, he wouldn't go so far, but they could do whatever they wanted. He just needed a hot shower now (or better a cold one) and needed to clear his head and decide what to do with the phone number that was laying heavily in his pocket. Scribbled only on a piece of paper but heavier than bricks.

That bloke had been good looking. If he was in any kind of position to judge it. And the kiss (well, plural really. Kisses) had been quite good as well. Oh sod it, extraordinary. Mind-blowing. And that was what confused him. Truly, honesty confused him. He had known there was the possibility that he was, well, not necessarily hunting on this side of the track, but he not quite acknowledged it yet. And now that he had spent the night, or half the night talking with Noel (and the other half of the night snogging with him), it had become so much more of a reality. And Noel was a lovely person. A kind one. A Muggle, yes, but...he was attentive and sweet and a good listener and didn't judge. From what he had seen that night. And his lips and tongue were...he sighed softly and pushed the door to Teddy's room open.

He didn't doubt that Hermione had brought him to bed just fine and that Snape had stayed but he needed to see the boy for himself. He couldn't begin something as long as Teddy was so small and needed all his love. But Noel...

Teddy slept peacefully and did those painfully cute baby-snored which made Harry want to pick him up and cuddle him within an inch of his life. Better not. Better take the shower and cast a silencing charm on the downstairs (and Hermione's room) and go to bed. Or transfigure something into a place for him to sleep in Teddy's room. Sleep and figure out whether that brick with the number on it in his pocket should be used or not.

.

He should not touch her. Even if her hand lay so invitingly on the table, still a bit greasy from the fish and chips and mushy peas he had brought from the chippy. It had been good to leave her be for the fifteen minutes it had taken him. The fresh air had cleared his mind.

He had to let her know, in small, little, for Gryffindor's comprehensible words, that he liked her. That he was fond of her. He couldn't admit to more yet since there wasn't more but he had to tell her. And if she laughed at him (which he doubted) or if she threw him out (which he doubted), he at least knew for certain that she was not feeling something for him in return (which he doubted). And if that all went belly-up, at least now he could apparate away (but mustn't forget Eleanor's car). He doubted it though and in the chippy, his mood had lightened again. He had, successfully, overcome years of strict Occlumency and he would most certainly not try to pull those walls back up again.

She meant something to him. Which, or what precisely, he didn't know yet but he had to tell her somehow. And make honest conversation with her.

And so he had returned, had put the greasy food on the kitchen table and watched her as she brought plates and cups of tea, and then, after a moment's hesitation, summoned a bottle of wine from the cellar. It was real wine, not elf-made. Some red which made his gums tingle.

"Did you have to wait long?" she asked after having eaten in silence.

"No," he replied. "Not too long."

She sighed and her hand still lay very invitingly on the wooden table. He only had to move his a few inches forward. It wasn't a lot of distance to cross and earlier, she had almost leaned into him before she had pulled away, hadn't she? He would try the subtle way and slowly moved his fingertips towards her, never taking her eyes off her face. Her legs were, lucky for him, hidden by the table but...

"Are your legs cold?" he asked, his eyes on hers, his fingers inching towards hers.

"No," she smiled beatifically. "Harry has constant warming charms on the floor because of Ted. He always crawls on the floor and since his last cold, Harry wants to avoid him getting another one desperately. I mean you should have seen those two fighting over potions and vials. Harry wanted him to take it, Ted hated the taste. We had some interesting times, here," she laughed, blushing slightly.

"I can imagine," he replied in his most kind tone. "You can try to add some lemon grass. It has no magical property and it does enhance the taste, I found."

"Really? I didn't know that," she gaped at him.

"Of course. I've tried it myself multiple times."

"Not for the ones in the Infirmary, you didn't. They always tasted horrid."

He smirked. "And why should I? For dunderheads to get into even more scrapes because the potions don't taste quite so bad at all? No, Hermione. This had all educational value."

She grimaced, and finally, his fingertips had found hers and the touch, he found, was electric. Warm fingers. Not pulling away but her eyes darted to her hand and she smiled. She bloody smiled at their hands.

"I don't doubt it," she whispered. "Have you tried to brew since you've..."

He shook his head immediately. "No. I threw out all the cauldrons when..." he stopped. That was a part of his life, those few days or weeks when he had just returned to Spinner's End and hadn't believed he would ever be able to do magic again.

"When?" she asked, her fingertips now inching closer to his and somehow, oddly, caressing his. Maybe she wasn't doing it. Maybe he was subconsciously caressing her fingers and only thinking that she did it.

"When I get my verdict. Just after that. I threw out the cauldrons," he took a deep breath, "and used most of my books to keep the fire going."

"You burned books?" she asked, horrified but not in the shrieking tone he had suspected.

"Yes."

"But..." she wanted to protest and complain but suddenly, and he could see the change, her facial expression shifted. Her eyes grew wider and her mouth fell open slightly. "I see," she whispered and her fingers were suddenly between his. Holding his. "You wanted to rid yourself of everything that reminded you."

He gave a sharp nod.

"I see. But burning books? You could have sold them or could have told Draco to sell them..."

"In the end, Lucius Malfoy sold a few. Stole them and sold them, I should say. What would I have done with books on magic, Hermione? There was nothing left," he added very softly.

She didn't reply for a long moment. She merely looked at him, possibly tried to figure out whether to run screaming or have him committed when her hand gripped his tighter. "I think I understand why you did it," she told him gently.

.

Burning books was an offence which ranked just below murder. She had always thought so and under normal circumstances, she suspected that she would still, and for the rest of her life, think so. But here, opposite her, sat a man who she knew had a love for books and reading and the written word that rivalled hers. He had always been seen with one book or another at Hogwarts. Sometimes, when he could get away with it, he had read during meals there too. Not that it had happened often but she had spotted him once or twice. And this man who loved books had burned his. Not because he didn't like the books anymore, or so she thought, but because he couldn't stand to see what they represented. And for that, Hermione felt sympathy. That, she could understand and grasp. It was comprehensible. He would have wanted to get rid of everything which reminded him of that bloody awful world which had thrown him out. Had turned their backs on him after he had saved that sorry world's arse over and over again.

She couldn't possibly blame him for that.

And besides, he had told her. She was known to despise those who mistreated books. It had been all over the press at one point or another. She was the bookworm. And he had still told her about it. He looked her in the eyes, cast his eyes down in shame then and told her. He was ashamed of what he had done but he, just as she, could acknowledge that it had been done for a reason; that he hadn't told her to get the books was just as understandable. These days, she hoped he would tell her. Back then she had only been the nuisance, the ex-pupil. The swot. The Gryffindor.

And now? Now he held her hand on top of the table and stroked her fingers and let her stroke his. He let her caress his warm hands with her greasy, fishy ones and his eyes were warm and kind. She didn't understand why she constantly doubted him and his motives. He seemed absolutely genuine sitting there and maybe, she thought, she could get away with making a tiny confession. Maybe she could tell him...

"I like you," she suddenly blurted out, grasping his fingers tightly. "I enjoy sitting here with you and would you like another glass of wine?"

He arched his eyebrows at her and seemed utterly surprised at her outburst. Hell, she was surprised by her outburst. Not that it had been a declaration of undying love but she had told him that she liked him. Now it was his to spit upon.

She waited for it. She waited for the sneer and the guffaw and whatever else he would do to trample on her heart but nothing, absolutely nothing of this was forthcoming. He merely picked up her hand (it felt like it was being picked up) from the table and, grease and fish-stink and all, brought it up to his lips and placed a featherlight kiss on the knuckle of her middle finger. Just like that. He didn't even smirk. He looked as he had...

Oh, that was it. The way he looked now. He had always looked like it when he had graded or brewed. Utter concentration. Full focus. On her knuckle and then, on the back of her hand.

He kissed the back of her hand. The same expression on his face.

"I like you too," he said a moment later looking up from her hand and into her eyes. She felt her insides melt and her heart stop and she felt her hand being turned somehow and held by both of his as if it was completely precious or worth holding onto and when he looked away from her face, his focus switched to her hand again, or the palm of it and he breathed a kiss on the palm.

Hermione had gone to jelly. Everything. There were goosebumps on her bare legs and they had nothing to do with them being bare. Her arm felt on fire. Her insides ached at such tenderness and that it would be – bestowed on her. On her. From him.

His words finally registered in her brain. He liked her. 'I like you too'. He liked her. Not a declaration of undying love but...he liked her! He liked her!

The goosebumps got little baby-goosebumps and those got babies and her entire body was covered with them, or so it felt like.

"That's nice to hear," she whispered throatily.

"Yes, and next time when you tell me something like that," he almost smirked, "don't try such an accusative tone. Just a normal declarative will do. And yes, I would like another glass of wine but not just yet," he smirked. Now he smirked. He had told her he liked her and then he smirked. Making fun of her. Or was that teasing her? Was that good natured?

The kiss on the inside of her wrist screamed yes. Yes he liked her, yes he teased her, yes he meant what he said and the kiss made her close her eyes and lean a little over the table towards him. She should just accio the bottle of wine and pour him some but she couldn't. He breathed on her wrist and he kissed her wrist and her lower arm and he didn't say a word. He looked alternately in her eyes and at her wrist and he just kissed that. Gently. Softly. Sweetly.

Had never thought he could be like this. So tender. So...un-Snape-like. This was almost...almost like Head-Severus. But he just ravaged her arm and wasn't sprouting off undying-love-crap. He just focused on her arm, on her wrist, on her hand like this was the most interesting thing on earth.

"Snape," she breathed and he looked up at her.

"Hm?" he asked, pressing another kiss on her wrist.

She pulled her hand back. "Why are you doing this?"

He sighed and let go off her hand, then leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms across his chest and looked deeply into her eyes. "Didn't we just establish that I liked you?"

"Yes, but..."

"No but, Hermione," he shook his head.

"Alright, no but...but...you hated me."

"Did I?"

"Didn't you?" she asked breathlessly.

He shrugged non-chalantly. "Maybe it was just the idea that a mere girl could know so much."

"Girl?"

"Back then. Not today," he shook his head. "You're not a girl anymore."

"No?"

"No," he explained. "You're not," he took her hand again and kissed her palm once more. What could she possibly say to that? She needed to know so many things but...but what could she ask? Where could she begin? Where? She didn't know. And she didn't want to snatch her hand back. She would have to, though, if she wanted to think clearly. She couldn't do that when he was holding her hand like this.

"Snape," she breathed and he looked in her eyes again and she found herself lost for words. What did people talk about when they entered a relationship? She never really had. She had always relied on common ground with Victor Krum, she had always relied on friendship when she had talked to Ron (not that that had been a relationship) and she hadn't talked much to Ian at all.

"Hm?"

"How are your studies going?" she asked suddenly, almost shrieked and pulled her hand back finally.

"Rather well, I should say," he replied honestly and didn't look put out. "I was asked to begin tutoring next semester and if I succeed in my exams at the end of the semester, I will be allowed to teach one beginner's course."

"Really? That's wonderful," she smiled, her hand tingling. "And do you want to do that?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I have taught before. And the difference is that I would have people in front of me now who are generally interested."

"It's a pity with potions. It's one of those subjects, isn't it?"

"What kind of subject?"

"You either like it, or you hate it. And if you hate it, you still have to do it."

He seemed to ponder her question and scratched his chin. "I suppose so."

"And it didn't make it easy to teach that," she whispered.

He looked at her oddly and after nodding once only, he took the last sip from his glass. "And what do you intend to do with mathematics?"

Was he interested? Did he care? Did he really want to know? He looked like it and his hand inched closer to hers again and she let it. He wouldn't let him kiss it though. She needed a bit of conversation.

"I am unsure yet. Maybe I'll do the same thing you do. Try to be as smart as possible and teach there. I don't know if I'm cut out for teaching though and if that doesn't work, I suppose I can always try to find a job somewhere. I mean mathematicians are looked for everywhere and I'm not keen on working full-time in the wizarding world. The mess they created after the war and the way Shacklebolt handled his job and just bowed to the Wizengamot or made the Wizengamot bow to him...the way that Veritaserum was, or is, I don't know, administered so freely...I don't like that. There's been so much corruption and it's all going to blow up in their faces. And seriously, I love that I'm a witch but the way that I was treated after the war and the rest of us as well...just look at you. You're the biggest hero that world has seen and what do they do...?" she clapped her hand in front of her mouth and shook her head (unfortuntely, it was the hand he had kissed and she could smell him on it and it sidetracked her thoughts for a moment. A moment only).

"I'm not a hero," he said quietly.

"You are. For fu...erm, heaven's sake, of course you are. You died almost because of us. I mean you were dead for a while, weren't you? That's what the people in St Mungo's said. And you called that not being a hero? Why? I mean you stopped living your life just to save our world and you say you're not a hero? Stop that. Of course you are."

"No."

"Yes. And I won't argue with that. Seriously. You have to give yourself credit for what you've done. And you...you made a live out of what you'd been handed. I've seen you with Mrs Callaghan and Aideen and Draco, Snape. I know you tried to make your life without magic and you succeeded. You will teach again. I mean seriously. Just imagine a moment what any of the Weasley would have done if you had stripped them off their magic. They would have possibly died within days. Or would have been killed. And you..."

"Stop," he said sharply, glaring at her.

"What?"

"I don't need your praise."

She smiled gently and shook her head. "I'm not praising you. I'm only saying what I think. And if I presume correctly, you want to...do you want to get to know me? For real?"

He took a deep breath. "Yes."

"And I'm only telling you things about myself. Why don't you think you're a hero?"

Another deep breath, and a deep frown on his forehead., "I only dealt with things on a day to day basis since..."

"After the war? We all did that," she said compassionately. "Planning is hard to do after you feared for your life every day for a long time."

He didn't say anything but she knew she had been correct in what she had been saying and slowly, because she thought she had to, she took his hand and kissed the back of it gently. "I know," she said. "I know."

.

He wanted to kiss her badly. She was silent when she had to be and she talked when he asked the right question. She talked more than strictly necessary, to be honest. They had a few awkward moments, he had to admit to that. And she was pretty sitting there and he couldn't stop thinking about her legs. Bare legs. He wondered, briefly, whether he made the same mistake as he had done with Deveney (not that it had been a mistake per se). Seeing the physical and forgetting about the mental but then he was pulled back to reality by her.

"Do you really want to teach?" she asked timidly.

He wondered. Did he? It had seemed like the perfect way to make his living without magic. And now, with his magic back, with the possibility of potions (and he wasn't sure whether Kreacher had found all the potions stuff yet – too focused on her), did he? She wondered and he did.

Yes. Yes, he did. He didn't want to brew potions for a living. He didn't want to rely on wizards and witches to earn him his keep, so to speak and so he nodded. "Yes, I do. I want to see what I can do as a teacher for those who want to learn."

"Seems worthwhile," she replied slowly and their hands were still entwined. He didn't want to let go. She was like him in a way. Disappointed by the way the magical world had handled them. Them, being outsiders, both of them. Different from the rest of them, and still having tried to fit in. They hadn't handled either of them well and they, he and she, seemed to look at different options. In the Muggle world. Away from those they had grown up amongst. Seeing if they could make it work. Her with maths and him with linguistics.

"I suppose so," he replied, and he could feel himself smiling at her.

"You're very handsome when you smile," she said very quietly, was only muttering it to herself, he guessed.

"I'm not," he argued and pressed his fingers against hers.

"You are," she smiled back. "You can't see yourself."

"Of course I can't. But I refuse to be called handsome."

"Why?"

"Because..." he was at a loss. Because he wasn't? Because he never had considered himself handsome? Because he had known from the tender age of...what...nine, that he would never be considered handsome by anyone? Because his father had said that he was ugly as sin? "Because I'm not."

"You are. Don't argue," she whispered and lifted their hands to her lips and kissed his fingers. One after the other.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(Today, I had the best class ever. I took it over from someone else and I had expected them to resent me but they honestly love me. I have no idea why, I don't know why it happened but they really took to me. Weird, eh?)**_


	90. Conversation

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_In simple terms, English conversation can be described as an activity where, for the most part, two or more people take turns at speaking. Typically, only one person speaks at a time and there tends to be an avoidance of silence between speaking terms. (This is not true in every culture) If more than one participant tries to talk at the same time, one of them usually stops, as in this example where A stops until B has finished:_

_A: Didn't you know..._

_B But he must've been there by two_

_A: Yes but you knew he was going. _

(Yule, 1996)

.

It had taken a while before it got comfortable. His fingers played with hers just as much as her fingers played with his but when they had moved to common ground, she could focus more on the conversation than on him holding her hand. She had tried to steer clear of talking about people they both knew, since, well, most of them were from the wizarding world but it couldn't quite be avoided. She had begun asking about Mrs Callaghan and her back and then about Aideen and Draco, he hadn't asked (and she hadn't even wondered about it) about Harry or Ron at first.

And then, after a not quite awkward silence had fallen, he had squeezed her fingers briefly. "What about Luna Lovegood? Have you heard from her?"

She shook her head, "Not really. I mean we owl about once every other month but...she's working for her father now, I think. Or maybe she's off to somewhere in the world to look for some non-existent creature."

"Longbottom?"

"Apprenticeship. Herbology."

"Makes the most sense," he said pensively.

"Why are you asking?"

He pierced her with his eyes. "I'm interested. I seem to remember that you were friends with them."

Hermione shrugged and saw what he was doing. He was trying to appear interested in her life. Maybe he really was. But that wasn't the way to it. Those people...she still liked Luna and Neville but they didn't have a lot in common anymore. And friends? Yes. On some level. "Friends is a...matter of definition. They were certainly always more than acquaintances but I can't say that I loved Luna or Neville or anyone else I went to school with. I mean I love Harry and Ron, but they are my friends. Harry always was my friend and I'm glad I could rebuilt things with Ron."

"Rebuilt?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh, I suppose you couldn't have known. I thought that by now everyone knew. No, it's just that for a while I thought that he and I were well-suited and after the, erm, battle, we tried to make a go of it. Well, I did and he saw things much sooner than I. But it was awkward," she blushed and shrugged and almost pulled her hand away.

"I see. I remember some sort of tension between you and Weasley."

She shrugged. "I don't know," then she beamed at him. "But I can't tell you how glad I am that things with him didn't work out."

"Well, you would have eaten him for breakfast. He's no match for you intellectually," he snorted. Snape snorted. At her, at Ron, didn't matter. He snorted.

"Ron is not that bad. We just had different interests. For him, maths is still the 'weird-plus-and-minus-stuff'."

"I see," was Snape trying to hide a grin? It certainly looked like it. It amused her to no end and it made her smile as well.

"Try explaining quadratic equations to him and he looks like you've just declared that you want to have a sex change," she laughed. "And I think deep down, he still doesn't quite accept that I might not want to work in the wizarding world. He even offered me a job to work with him at his brother's George's. Ridiculous."

"Oh, why not? I can see you testing their products," he smirked.

"Are you teasing me?"

"Possibly," he still smirked.

She pulled her hand away from his and slapped his fingertips. She shook her head with a smile. She couldn't believe he was like this. He could be like this. Teasing her. Joking with her. She wondered whether to tell him about that, ask him, but instead, she only smirked back and put her hand in his again. "I don't want to look like a canary, thank you very much," she told him nevertheless a second later and before he could say more or react in any other way than smirking, she could hear the front door being opened and closed again.

"Erm, okay?" she muttered. "Ron doesn't walk like that. Must be Harry. Home so early?" she asked Snape, frowning.

"Early, Hermione? Have you checked what time it is?" he still smirked. Or smirked again, she wasn't sure.

She shook her head. Of course she hadn't checked the time. Why should she have? She didn't wear a watch and she was now very comfortable with him. No need to know how late it was but...they had only finished their meal a few minutes ago. And Harry probably had a shite night and had decided to come home early. Or...that didn't make sense.

"What time is it then?"

"Half past two," he whispered and sounded amused. He was amused.

"Really? Well. Erm. Okay," she laughed. "I didn't think it was that late. Or early. Would you like more tea?"

He nodded with a tiny smile and that tiny smile let some wrinkles appear around his eyes and they were...very beautiful. Only a few wrinkles around his eyes and he appeared younger (which was, she noticed, a paradox but...didn't matter) and happier and...had she doubted that man? And his intentions? Why else should he smile like that at her, while holding her hand and stroking her fingers? He was honest. He was truly honest with her and that man was...interested in her. In her!

It had only ever been Victor Krum who had been interested in her (and Ian but Ian didn't count and she wanted Ian out of her head), who had paid this much attention to her while she just sat and talked. Her boys had only ever listened when it had been about their life and the threat thereof. But Victor had never been able to catch her attention this way and she had certainly never talked this long with him. Or wanted to keep on talking. And if they talked the night through, she could spent the next day in bed – being Saturday.

"So no, I wasn't teasing you," he said after a moment.

"Teasing me? Oh, the Weasleys Wizard Wheezes. I can't work for them. I'd rather go work for a computer company. Or one of those internet-companies. I said it before, I don't...I don't really see myself, or my future, entirely in the wizarding world."

"And yet, you worked so hard to give me my magic back?" he arched his eyebrows.

"Yes. But I won't...I mean, do you want to know why I did it? I told you."

"Not in so many words," he gripped her hand tighter as she levitated a fresh pot of tea on the table with her other hand.

"Because it's your right to do magic. And just because you can doesn't mean you have to go and work for the Ministry, or teach at Hogwarts, or do something else there. You don't have to buy a shop in Diagon Alley. And you said so yourself, you want to see how teaching at university will go for you. Why shouldn't you be able to do both? Magic and Muggle stuff? I think most of the wizarding world is just too arrogant to...you know, Malfoy. Look at Malfoy. He finds a book, decides to act on it, and then somehow gets a Muggle woman into his bed and obliviates her as he sees fit. He thinks he can rule over them, and I believe a lot of people think so. Even the Half-Bloods. No offence. But you go to Hogwarts, you stay there for seven years, then you have a magical education but how to multiply larger sums is beyond people and you don't even want to know how many mistakes Ron makes when it comes to punctuation. And that's just wrong..."

"And yet you went to University. Muggle University," he interjected.

"Because I could force the Ministry to give me A-Levels and if they hadn't done that, I would have had to forge them. I would have but...Draco. He was a good pupil. He was bright and he was clever and well, he was good at school but last I checked, he was unemployed and before that, he was selling clothes. That can't be right. You see what I mean? There is no way that someone who only went to school in the wizarding world has a future, a decent future, in the Muggle world. It's not any different the other way round but...I don't see why I shouldn't change that. Why shouldn't I live in the Muggle world? Why shouldn't I have a Muggle job? And why shouldn't you?"

He smirked at her and dragged his thumb across her knuckles. "I don't think I've heard such a passionate speech at this hour for quite some time."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "You provoked me."

"I shall remember that provoking you might have rather interesting and entertaining results."

"Funny," she mock-huffed but...this was more than enjoyable. This was wonderful. This was comfortable and warm and fuzzy and if anyone had told her that she would feel comfortable and warm and fuzzy, with a dizzying feeling in her stomach with Snape a few months ago, she would have sent that person straight to St Mungo's. Or a Muggle looney bin. But she was. Even though...the chair she sat on was a little uncomfortable and she truly wanted to move to the sofa in the living room. Fire and Snape and...but she couldn't. It was mind-blowing enough as it was to have him holding her hand like this. But to expect him to cuddle with her, or to wish it...she couldn't.

Hermione sighed softly.

.

"Are you tired?" he asked, hearing her sigh softly.

She shook her head, pouring more tea. It had surprised him as well how late it was really and he hadn't expected to have sat with her that long without being bored or uncomfortable. His back would suffer the next day, or that day, he knew, since the chairs were wooden and hard, but he couldn't bring himself to get up and asking her to go to a more comfortable seating, he couldn't as well. This was her home and he was possibly even pushing the boundaries a bit by holding her hand like this.

He had never been one to hold hands. Hadn't ever done it before her. Not really. Never. But he couldn't stop himself. He couldn't pull his hand away and he couldn't stop his fingers from stroking hers. He had never in his life acted this way and he had never before felt the need, the urge to touch someone, quite on the contrary.

Maybe, he wondered briefly, he was now catching up on all the years that he had avoided touching, or being touched. Or possibly her hands were just too soft to let go. Maybe those were after-effects of forcing his Occlumency away. Or maybe Eleonor's tears had...oh.

"Have you," he asked slowly, "done any reading on magical properties of tears?"

"Tears? Phoenix tears?" she frowned. "Yeah, I have but..."

He shook his head quickly. "No, human tears."

"Magical properties of human tears? I don't think so," she shook her head back. "Why?"

"I, erm, do you think there is something?"

"We could look in the library but in this library, I think we can only find something if it has dark properties. How...what gave you the idea?"

Severus took a deep breath. He knew he had a choice. He could tell her what had happened – or he could keep it to himself. It wasn't really a choice. Not really. He expected honesty of her. And he wanted her to trust him. He couldn't stop touching her. He did trust her.

Taking a deep breath, he let go off her hand and she looked alarmed for a moment. "After you performed the curse, I had a delayed reaction?"

"A reaction? What was it? Did you write it down for future purpose? Bullocks. Are you alright now? Is everything okay again? What was it?"

He took another deep breath. "Occlumency. I was so used to using it that I had no control over it anymore and all my shields snapped up. That's why I haven't contacted you during that time."

"I don't...you wanted to contact me? And...I'm still not sure what you mean? You got the magic back then..."

"I hugged you and you bolted," he remarked snidely.

"Yeah, well, after that. You just..."

"Has anyone ever used forceful Legilimency on you? When you occlude and...can you occlude?"

"A little," she shrugged. "But if you don't have a teacher to teach you and you only learn from books..."

"Won't work yes, but the sensation was the same only reversed. I couldn't think all I wanted anymore and I couldn't feel at all anymore."

"You...couldn't feel? Anything? Like physical pain and..."

"Not really, no. And since I was completely out of practice, I had lost, in a way, control over my ability. My mind shut down and..."

"Oh, Severus," she breathed and of course he noticed that she was, for the first time, using his first name. And then breathing it like that, like a caress, he was almost undone but she came first and she reacted first and darted around the table and flung her arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug, pulled his head between, against, to her breasts and stroked his temple and hair and forehead and cheek. "Is it okay again now? And...oh, did you cry then?"

"I didn't," he whispered and actually wanted to say anything anymore. He was rather comfortable pressing the side of his head against her...breasts.

"The tears? It had to do with the tears then? I mean..."

He rolled his eyes and took a deep sniff of her scent, then pulled her down on his lap. She squealed a little and sat sideways against him, her arms still (or again?) around his neck and rested her head against his.

"No. I did not cry but Eleanor...Eleanor, well, she cried on me. And I did count the tears and after three, I began fighting against the Occlumency and after seven, all the shields were lowered."

"Because she cried on you?" she asked and he couldn't help staring at her bare legs, her feet and her hidden thighs on his thigh. It was easy to just put his hand on her thigh, feel them again. He kept them on her skirt but he could clearly feel that they were as firm as he remembered and, sort of thought about. He squeezed her thigh and rested his hand there and she smiled and sighed.

"Because she cried on me. At least this is what I believe," he told her in a whisper.

"I haven't read anything about tears, as I said but then again, I never came across your condition, or reaction. It is gone now?"

"Do you think I'd sit like that if it wasn't?" he asked sharply.

"No," she turned her head a little and kissed his cheek gently. "Erm, I have read about Occlumency-poisoning though."

"It is a rare condition," he stated.

"Did you have it? Erm. I mean...have you experienced it?"

He shook his head. "I built up my walls slowly and always had a chance to lower the shields for a while. I thought they had changed the name of Occlumency-poisoning?"

"I came across it in an old periodical I found in Regulus's old room. I suppose he...somehow suffered from it," she explained, and sat up straighter in his lap. She was sitting in his lap. Smiling. Discussing things with him. Without being bored. At almost three in the morning.

"Why should he have?"

"Because of the Horcrux, the locket," she said and puzzled him further.

"I know there were Horcruxes involved," he said, his fingers twitching on her thigh, "but what did Regulus Black do with Occlumency?"

"Oh, shite, yeah, you don't know about that," she ranger her fingers through her hair. "He discovered one and he took it. So I suppose that..."

"He what?" interrupted Severus and was tempted to shove her off his lap but didn't. She would have taken it wrong. It wasn't that he wanted her off his lap, he just wanted to hear this. Regulus...

She took a deep breath. "Regulus broke with, you know, and somehow, and we have no idea how, he figured out that there were Horcruxes. Or at least one. It's a long story but basically..."

"Kreacher," Severus said voicelessly. "Regulus was angry because of the elf..."

Hermione nodded slowly. "And he figured out that it was a Horcrux but couldn't destroy it. So my theory is that he actually did too much Occlumency at once, hence got poisoned, hence wasn't all himself when he went to the lake-island-place and that's why he died. And the Inferi, of course," she explained eagerly.

"He would have had to learn it quite fast," he said pensively, then let out a long, long breath. "Regulus..."

"Sorry, I thought you knew," she shrugged and made an apologetic face.

"I should have known," he said pensively. "And..."

"How could you have known? I assume you know didn't tell all of his Death Eaters about Horcruxes and he couldn't have known that Regulus had the locket. He died in 79, I mean...if he had known, he would have had time to make more or..."

Severus shook his head. He should have known. Regulus had been...he had always thought that Regulus had just vanished. Had turned his back to the Death Eaters and hadn't been able to stand his torture. I always thought..."

"No, don't...Severus. You couldn't have known."

"Hm," he said and felt his head pulled tighter against her again .This contact was...nice. She reassured him and she obviously wasn't disgusted by him. They talked – more or less openly – about his past. About what he had done and she still sat on his lap. She still hugged him. She pulled him tighter and she let him touch her. It blew his mind.

"Anyway, that's where I found the article on Occlumency-poisoning."

"And you think he might have researched ways to counter it?" he asked, glad that she had changed the topic back.

"I don't know. I mean from what you said, your symptoms were rather like Occlumency-poisoning. On the other hand..."

"No. As far as I know, acute Occlumency-poisoning is the absolute inability to think and to react rationally. I had no problem acting rationally. The rationality was all that was left. Quite the opposite."

She hummed softly. "Am I too heavy?"

"No," he said immediately, sneaking his free arm around her waist.

"Can you test magical property? Are there potions? Oh, hang on," she straightened up, then stood up, leaving him feeling rather – cold. Why had she stood up. "Kreacher?" she said softly.

A second later, the old house elf appeared. "I'm sorry if I woke you, Kreacher," she said immediately and kneeled down on the floor to be the same height as the ancient elf. The view he had from where he sat was rather worth losing her from his lap. He had to hide the smirk. Very beautiful behind. Very.

"Kreacher lives to serve," the elf bowed.

"Kreacher, we wondered...did Regulus have Occlumency-poisoning?"

The elf began to wail. It was a terrible, high-pitched noise and if Potter had slept, he would be woken now at least. Still, he pulled out his wand and, he wasn't sure why, cast a Silencing Charm on the room. The boy would wake up as well and he didn't want to deal with an irate Potter in the middle of the night because a stupid elf had woken his godson.

"Poor, good Master Regulus. Poor, poor Master Regulus. Couldn't think anymore but had to hide his thoughts. Good Master Regulus."

Severus shot Hermione a look and she nodded at him. "Did he try to find a cure for that?" she asked, probably still trying that they could find out this way about tears. Without having to have to find a way to figure out if there were magical properties to tears first.

Kreacher pulled on his ears. "Kreacher wanted good Master Regulus but good Master Regulus had to go find the evil locket."

Hermione sighed again. "Thank you, Kreacher. I'm so sorry we woke you."

"Kreacher found books for good Master Regulus to make him better," the elf ignored his dismissal and bowed.

"You did?"

"Kreacher, could you bring them?"

"Good Master Severus. Good Master Regulus liked Master Severus," the elf flashed his teeth in what could be construed as a smile and popped away. Regulus had liked him? Those were news to him but...he was dead. So many people dead and Regulus was only one of the names. Still, how different could it have been if he had known about Regulus? About what he had done? He had understood sooner than Severus how evil this all had been. Little Regulus. He snorted to himself and only noticed now that Hermione was watching him with a worried frown on her face.

"What is it?" she asked and he instantly shook his head.

"It's of no importance."

"Remembering?"

"Yes," he nodded and she straightened again and kissed his cheek.

.

Kreacher was incredibly helpful. He had not only got up in the middle of the night for them but had obeyed Snape straight away and had made them a fresh pot of tea. The table had been littered with books after only a few minutes and she and he sat hunched over them happily, sipping tea, reading. His hand had some time found its way to her thigh as she sat next to him and she had then covered his with hers as they had read and checked for facts.

Hermione thought that the chance to find something in those books were slim to none – about the property of tears – but he had more or less asked her opinion and she wanted to help him. Maybe they could work something out together and it was fun. He grumbled when he read and snorted and made cute noises when he disagreed with something he read.

She had to admit that she had snuggled closer and that she had to hide her yawn once in a while. That her eyelids were dropping and the letters swam in front eyes from time to time but he kept reading and she certainly didn't want to throw him out, or ask him to leave. She wanted him to stay there and she wished she could just put her head on his shoulder and sleep. Terribly strong urge to just put her head there. But she didn't and she wouldn't and she just kept on reading even though it was hard to read and it was only his presence and his soft and gentle noises, the questions she sometimes had to ask, and the answers he gave her in a soft voice (as Kreacher was sleeping noisily in the corner of the room to be at their disposal), that kept her from it.

She never thought she could so comfortably read in the presence of another.

.

Harry had barely slept. He had thought he had dropped off briefly in Teddy's room when he heard a wail, or the beginning of a wail from Kreacher but it was over before it had begun and it had probably just been a figment of his imagination. Most likely. Teddy had snored gently and he had let the breathing lull him into a sense of peace, even if it wasn't sleep.

Teddy was his priority. But there were parents and there were patchwork-families and partners who accepted other children. He hadn't told Noel about Teddy...but that night, when he had watched his godson sleep and had listened to him sleep, he realised that it wasn't necessary yet. Hermione would have even cancelled her thing with Snape for Ted. And he didn't doubt that Ron was perfectly ready to be at home with him as well. And if he could meet Noel once in a while...that would be alright for the time being. And if it turned out to be something more, then he could always...introduce them.

But he was...Noel was a he, and while he knew rationally that nobody would have a problem with it, the problem seemed to be more in himself. What if he hadn't ended things with Ginny because she looked like his mother but because she was a girl? What if he hadn't had sex with Ginny because he didn't like to have sex with girls? He hadn't...well, he had thought about blokes while...touching himself...but he hadn't taken it so serious. Or he had taken it serious but he hadn't wanted to. And if there were blokes in his future, what would he do in terms of fatherhood? He wanted Teddy to have a sibling eventually. And with another bloke, that just wasn't possible.

He would have to think more about this. More and maybe meet Noel and check and kiss a girl to see how it compared. Even though – he didn't want to kiss anyone but him. Shite.

Harry was glad when Teddy began to babble to himself and began to stand up in his bed and when he could pick him up from his bed.

"We'll get breakfast and then annoy Hermione, eh? Ask her how her date with the big old meanie Snape went, alright?"

"Sev'wus Snap!" Teddy grinned toothily.

"Yes, Sev'wus Snap. Big old meanie Snap!" Harry laughed. The boy never failed to make him laugh or smile.

Teddy nodded and snuggled his head into Harry's neck, sighing happily. He held the boy and walked carefully down the stairs, casting warming charms on them. The house was too cold to be running around in only shorts and a t-shirt and he was always very careful about Ted and whether he could catch a cold as well.

He pushed the door to the kitchen opened and shrank back instantly.

"What are you doing here? Still?"

"Harry, hi," a very bleary-eyed Hermione, her chair standing too close to Snape's turned around. She looked tired but still rather pretty.

"Good morning, Mister Potter," Snape turned as well and Harry could only now see that his hand was firmly on Hermione's thigh.

"Erm, you had a good night then?" he asked, grabbing the tea pot on the table and pouring himself a cup and Ted a bit of milk.

"Yes," Hermione answered and beamed. She bloody beamed. Harry couldn't remember a time when he had seen her this happy and this content.

"I should go home," Snape said and as he looked at Hermione, even Harry's bleary, unrested eyes caught it. There was bloody tenderness in his eyes and if he wasn't entirely mistaken, the hand on Hermione's thigh squeezed. Unimaginable. Snape like this.

"Yeah?" Hermione asked and stared at him.

Snape nodded and stood up rather stiffly from the chair.

"You spent all night here?" asked Harry incredulously.

"Yes," both of them said at the same time, then looked at one another and while Hermione burst out laughing, Snape only – smiled. Snape smiled. Smiled. At Hermione. Maybe he was dreaming. He was asleep, hadn't kissed a bloke, dreamed. Simple explanation.

"Do you want to take the books with you? Or should we do half-and-half? We could..."

"Would you show me the way out?" asked Snape and took two books, with a brandnew wand shrank them and shoved them into the back-pocket of his jeans. Jeans. Snape. Smiling. Hermione. Too much.

She smiled at him and because Harry wasn't sure whether he was dreaming or not, he followed them quietly. And it was his turn to stare.

Snape had suddenly wrapped his arms around his best friend and hugged her close to his body. Smiled at her, and bent his head and kissed her. Kissed Hermione. Snape stood in the corridor of Grimmauld Place and kissed Hermione.

Harry rubbed his eyes. He had heard it from her but seeing it was something completely different. And Hermione seemed to kiss back with equal fervour. They snogged. They bloody snogged. This wasn't kissing anymore. Snogging. This was snogging.

But – if he had looked even half as happy as both of them did when he had snogged Noel...his future was clear as well.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(with the last few chapters, I wanted to try something different. Usually, when those two (or any other pairing) meet, most of their conversation is described as 'and he told her about this-and-that and then she told him about that-and-this'. I wanted to see how difficult it would be to write a date. Almost an entire date and this is the result. It was more difficult than it looks. In fact, it was bloody difficult and I have no idea how well I did. I suppose it is a bit boring and I apologise but I did it for the sake of trying it. )**_

_**[I miss replying to all of your lovely reviews. I do. But right now, I'm just too busy for that and as I said before, it's either replying or writing and I'd prefer writing, even if this is the sappy part which requires me to imbibe a certain amount of alcohol because I'm usually not a sappy person ;). Anyway, I hope you don't mind and if you really want a question answered, please shoot me an email or a PM. Thank you!]**_


	91. Insertion Sequence

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_It often happens that a question-answer sequence will be delayed while another question-answer sequence intervenes. The sequence will then take the for of Q1-Q2-A2-A1, with the middle pair (Q2-A2) being called an insertion sequence. Although there appears to be a question (Q2) tin response to a questions (Q1), the assumption is that once the second part (A2) of the insertion sequence is provided, the second part (A1) of the initial question (Q1) will follow. This pattern is illustrated as follows:_

_Agent: Do you want the early flight (=Q1)_

_Client: What time does it arrive? (=Q2)_

_Agent: Nine forty-five (=A2)_

_Client: Yeah – that's great! (=A1)_

(Yule, 1998)

.

His fingers itched dreadfully. Her thigh was wonderfully warm and soft and silky and his fingers wanted to inch upwards and touch her. Her. Her tongue did wicked things to his neck and his cheek and his ear and she pressed herself against him but when his hands wandered underneath her skirt – she stopped, breathing hard, staring wild-eyed at him.

"I can't, Draco," she said, panting, pushing his hands away and sitting up from her position on the couch. "I promised Gran. I wouldn't...you know. I promised her and..."

Draco had known. Draco had heard more than one very embarrassing lecture from Mrs Callaghan and he usually respected that but...he wanted Aideen. He loved Aideen. He honestly did. His eyes widened.

"I love you," he whispered softly, taking her hands in his.

"I...I love you too, but it won't change anything," she said sadly.

"We could get married."

"I don't want you to marry me just so you have, you know," she blushed slightly. "I don't want that. Most of those marriages fail anyway and if I want to get married, I want it to be forever."

Draco sat up straighter, then blinked. Why not marry her? He had, once or twice, briefly, thought about it. He was young, very young, and so was she. But hadn't they already lived through a lot? Her with the abduction and running away from him, taking him back when he had, in turn, ran from her and the intimacy and the feeling of being pushed away for what he had been. Her acceptance of him.

And he was twenty-one. She was twenty-one. It was young but not overly young. And they had been together for, well, almost a year. Christmas was approaching and why not marry her? He loved her.

He took a deep breath and slid down the couch, down on one knee on the floor, holding both her hands in one of his and, with his other, waving his wand at an empty can of coke. He would have to do this the right way, and soon, but for now, it would have to do. He focused and instantly, the empty can of coke was transfigured into a plain, boring, if pretty ring.

"I don't want to marry you because I want to get in your knickers," he said solemnly, looking deeply into her beautiful pale green eyes. "I think I want to marry you because I love you. And because you're...already my family. You and your grandmother and Severus. You're my family. Not my father or my mother or anyone. I want to get married because...I want to be officially, a part of your family. And I'm not saying we have to get married tomorrow or even this year. I just want you...no, I want to promise you that I will marry you. Just because I love you."

Aideen stared at him – dumbstruck.

.

"So," Harry said, his face in a confused frown. "You and Snape really snog."

"We do," Hermione said dreamily, awfully tiredly, staring at a point somewhere above Harry's head. She knew she was smiling stupidly but she couldn't help herself. His kiss had made her toes curl and she had to fling her arms around his neck and hold him to her and twist her fingers in his hair and kiss him more and he kissed her back and it had been...amazing. She hadn't been able to stop and it seemed neither had he. He hadn't stopped either. No idea how long they had stood there, and no idea how much Harry had seen. Possibly anything. Not that she cared. She was happy. Exorbitantly happy. Nothing more, nothing less.

"What's it then?" he asked curiously, but his face was drawn and there were dark circles around his eyes. Hermione's eyes hurt and she wanted to do nothing but fall into bed and sleep but something about him worried her. The way his eyes kept darting to Ted and then to her, the way he rubbed his scar. And the way he seemed to desperately want to know how she was doing, and how her night had gone.

"What do you mean?" she asked back, sitting heavily down on the chair and, knees locked, put her feet up on another chair.

"You and Snape?"

"We...sort of see anther. We haven't really talked about it but I think..." she smiled happily. "I like him, Harry. I more than like him and he seemed to be genuinely interested in getting to know me. How was your night?"

"Getting to know you?" he asked back. "Snogging you is getting to know you?"

"We talked. Before we snogged. And yes, he wants to get to know me. Can you now tell me how your night way?"

Harry put his face in his hand and shook his head and even though she really wanted to sleep and dream and think and email Snape, she got up and sat next to him. Her friend worried her. He wasn't acting like he normally would. He hadn't berated her for kissing Snape (no, Severus. Severus. He was Severus), hadn't been angry, or had made fun of her. Nothing. Just quiet curiosity and now this face-in-hand-putting.

"What's going on?" she asked, her arm wrapped around his shoulder.

.

He had shrunk the car and apparated in smaller steps back to Manchester. Smaller even than the ones he had made to get to London. He was too tired to try to get back home in one step and he only wanted a shower and his bed – happy that it was Saturday and that he could take the entire day to sleep.

A brief visit to Eleanor to tell her that her car was standing, full-sized, in front of her house again, to tell her that he was back and that there was no need to worry about him and to dodge, without a doubt, all her questions about where he had spent the night and what he had done.

What had he done? He had talked to Hermione, all night long, and he hadn't been bored for one second. He had seen a part of her that he had missed, or half-missed before. She, Hermione, was a woman. Fully-grown, mature, insightful, smart and witty, curious, lovely.

Again, she had kissed him like this, like he deserved it. Like she wanted it. She wanted it. That much was clear. She had wanted to kiss him back, that time and the first time and her fingers had curled in his hair, her fingernails scraped against his scalp and stroked the back of his neck.

He smiled stupidly. He couldn't remember ever, in his entire life, to have felt so glad to be in his own skin. For possibly the first time in his life, he was happy to be Severus Tobias Snape. To have gone the way he had gone. To be the person he was, to have the experience and to be exactly who he was. To have someone who kissed him like this, despite knowing who he was and what he had been capable of. Hermione Granger knew, he knew, who he was, what he had done, what had been the darkest hour of his life, his biggest regret (even though he hadn't specifically said so) and she nevertheless enjoyed, apparently, to touch him. This wasn't some woman he had picked up on the street and this wasn't about sex or physical intimacy. She knew him. Him. Not every secret and certainly not every dark deed he had done but she knew him. She was going into this with open eyes and he had to admit that he liked that particular fact. She wasn't rushing into something with a stranger of whom she knew nothing about – and the same was true vice versa.

Hell, he had known her since she was eleven years old and even though he knew she should feel like a dirty old man, he didn't. Maybe because his life in Hogwarts seemed so far, too far, away, because it had been another life, or maybe because she seemed to be much older than her years or he, when it came to inter-human relationships, much younger than his years. Maybe he just felt comfortable with her. They could skip all the biographical minutiae during their getting-to-know-stage, and could skip straight to the deeper thoughts and the wishes and hopes and dreams.

He didn't know – but he knew he felt happy to be himself. Happy, for maybe the first time. With what would be a spring in anyone else's step, he opened his front door, then closed it again, and went right around his house to Eleanor.

Eleanor – so far the most important woman in his life and he did not want to throw her over for Hermione. Not at all. He wanted, uncharacteristically, tell her about his night. Not all of it and he would certainly skip the toe-curling, parts-of-his-body-stiffening aspect of his – well – date but the rest, the sheer magnitude of what he felt, what he was going through, he wanted to let her know about. She deserved that and he deserved to be talking about it.

He deserved something. Maybe not Hermione. Maybe not the way she had touched him and kissed him but he should be allowed to talk about it. Eleanor's fault. Eleanor's fault that he wanted, had to, tell someone about it. Eleanor had done the main work. She had prepared him for this. For this...whatever it was going to turn into. She had been the one who had needled things out of him. Who had bugged him hard and long enough so he had told her even about his darkest days and nights. About his past. Without her...he doubted that he would have been able to kiss Granger like this.

He rang the doorbell and Eleanor answered and smiled at him.

"You didn't come home last night," she said, slightly mockingly.

He only shook his head and he had the feeling that the smile wasn't entirely gone from his face.

.

"I met someone last night," said Harry slowly.

"Really? Oh that's wonderful!" she gushed and tried to hide her yawn – again.

"Yeah," he said, and it didn't sound like he was particularly happy about the fact.

"She's not married, is she?" asked Hermione, stroking his shoulder with her thumb.

He shook his head and Ted was unsteadily wobbling over towards them, looking quizzically at his godfather and her.

"What then?" asked Hermione gently.

"It's not a she," he replied with great care and trepidation.

"A bloke then!" Hermione exclaimed and it sounded a lot more excited than she knew she should sound. He was obviously distressed about the fact and she was doing nothing but showing her excitement about having a gay best friend. But seriously – he had told her to take her stockings and shoes off and it had obviously worked. He had been telling her to keep the skirt on and it had worked. He had...didn't matter. She wanted him to be happy and at that moment, she could see, that he wasn't. "Why are you so unhappy about that?" she asked softly.

"Because it was a bloke, Hermione! A guy. Another male. A man! I kissed a man and I liked it!"

"Yeah, and? What's your point?" she knew that was the wrong answer the moment it had left her mouth.

"It's a bloke! Not someone I can have children with, not someone I can show my face in the wizarding world. He's a Muggle. HE! Not SHE! HE!" he shouted and Ted looked utterly scared.

"You're scaring your godson," she said immediately. "Look, I don't know if you noticed but plenty of wizards are homosexual. Dumbledore. Grindelwald, that potions-person...what was his name? Granger-something."

"How can you not know his name?"

"Granger-Dagworth then," she shook her head irritably. "They said Merlin had tendencies."

"He didn't!" Harry cried out.

"Maybe he did, maybe he didn't but it doesn't matter," she shrugged again. "Why are you making such a big deal out of it? I kissed Snape for heaven's sake. I don't think it can get anymore bizarre than that."

"I kissed a man!"

"As long as that man isn't Snape," she said flippantly. "Seriously, Harry. What is your problem...we're all..."

"On your side," she heard Ron's voice from the door and as she looked up, her former boyfriend, or almost boyfriend and best friend (one of the two she had) and flatmate looked at them intently. "Seriously, mate. As long as you don't make a pass at me, nobody will care. Not me and not Hermione and not my parents or my siblings – except Ginny but you'd have to understand that – and Skeeter can go to hell."

"What Ron said," added Hermione quietly. "It doesn't matter who you like or not like. Or love. Or snog. As long as you do whatever makes you happy."

"She's exactly right," Ron said. "But don't sleep next to me in the next few months, will you?"

Harry had a look of utter surprise on his face and his gaze fell from Hermione to Ron and back again.

"When did you grow up like this?" he asked voicelessly.

"I was always this grown-up," huffed Hermione.

"I think he means me," said Ron. "I grew up like this some time between...I don't know. Between camping and coming out of the Chamber of Secrets with Hermione. Or maybe after that. I'm not sure. But keep your fingers off me, right? You don't have a thing for me, do you? I mean that would be just weird. And I don't think I'm into blokes. No offence, mate but..."

Harry cracked a little smile. "You're not my type, it seems."

.

"The children are in the living room," Eleanor said. "So I'm keeping to the kitchen." She smiled a knowing, albeit slightly worried smile and for once, didn't press her hand to her back. "Whatever they're up to, I don't think I want to know," she whispered. "I give up on keeping them apart."

"They're not children anymore," said Severus pensively.

"Aideen will always be a child in my eyes. And so will you. And Draco, even though I met him when he was a young man already," she smiled. "Tea?"

He nodded and stifled a yawn.

"Long night then?" smirked Eleanor.

"We're trying to find out if tears have magical properties."

"We're?" she arched her eyebrows and gestured towards a chair for him to sit down.

"Yes, we," he smiled and shook his head slightly. "Hermione and me."

"Hermione?" she laughed.

"Hermione. I can't keep on calling her Granger. I kissed her for heaven's sake."

"I know you did. Again then? That's where you spent the night?" her face fell. "You didn't."

"I didn't. Of course I didn't," he growled. "As I said, we were talking and then researching magical property of tears."

"Tears?"

"You cried on me when..."

"Yes, yes," she waved it off. "I remember. Even though I do believe that that had more to do...well. Hermione, eh? So if that's not going on, what else is going on then?"

Severus sat down and still smiled stupidly. He hadn't ever – ever! – smiled so stupidly and so much in all his life. "I don't know."

"Relationship? Wedding? Marriage? Children?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. All of it. One day. Not yet. But I like her."

"You like her. Well. That's a big step, innit?"

He nodded and gestured for her to sit down as well and wanted to wave his wand around to get the tea ready but she just rolled her eyes.

"I'll make the tea. You tell me what you're planning to do."

"I, erm, I think I want to continue seeing her regularly. See what happens from there," he replied honestly.

"Hm...just don't...string her along, will you? I don't think that would be okay for either her or you," she replied quietly.

"I don't intend to. She's...she knows me, Eleanor. And I find that I like that she knows me. Even the..."

"Dark things," she nodded. "I understand that."

They fell silent and the older woman, the old woman really, was busy preparing the tea and when she finally sat down, two mugs and a pot of steaming tea on the table, she grasped his hands.

"Are you happy, Severus?" she asked softly.

Happy. Just minutes ago, he had admitted to himself that he was happy about being himself. But happy – as a general way of feeling? Happy? He had been happy with her. Happy to be sitting hunched over a book with her and feeling her head inch closer to his shoulder and her upper arm brushing against his. Hearing her breathing and the soft sighs she made while reading.

He was happy here in that kitchen, talking to Eleanor. He was indeed...

"I am, Eleanor, I am happy," he almost whispered.

"That's good, love. That is good," she smiled and her eyes seemed to be a little, ever so slightly, wet.

.

"What is your type then?" Hermione asked, stifling a yawn.

"And why does Hermione still wear that kind of clothing?" asked Ron, eyeing her suspiciously.

"I found them sitting over books this morning. Looked like they..."

"Who, they? She and Snape?"

"She and Snape, yeah, looked like they were researching things but her head was almost on his shoulder and you've never seen his nose farther away from a book. I mean his nose wasn't in the book but almost in Hermione's hair," Harry grinned, obviously about the change of topic.

"Oi!" Hermione complained loudly. "We were talking about you and your choice of...whatever you want to call that bloke. What's he liked?"

"Ask Ron what he was doing last night?" countered Harry.

"What I did last night?" replied Ron steadily. "First I ate too much of Mum's delicious cooking – she packed me tonnes of stuff, by the way, remind me, it's in the bag outside – then I talked to Dad, played a game of chess with him and tried to chat up Gabrielle who's here for a visit but she's just a snotty French cow – no offence to French cows – watched how Victoire decided it was fun to eat an entire fistful of Floo Powder, watched how Bill and Fleur got wildly terrified and flooed her – I love the irony – to St Mungo's and went to bed. Very entertaining night. Fleur's pregnant again, by the way," he shrugged. "Not half as interesting as your evenings, I suppose."

"She snogged Snape in the hall this morning."

Ron made an appreciative sound and held out his hand towards Harry. "That's another..."

"I will pay up," Harry rolled his eyes.

"Are you putting bets on me and Snape? And how come you haven't told us about the man you...you know."

Harry sighed dramatically and it seemed ever since Ron had come in, that a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "His name is Noel."

"Noel? Like Christmas?" Hermione sniggered – and wished she wasn't so tired. She would have been able to react much more rationally.

"Yeah, like Christmas," Harry seemed utterly put out.

"Don't mind her, she snogged with Snape," Ron waved her off. "Bloke that you did whatever with. Wizard?"

Harry shook his head. "He's tall, taller even than you, Ron, and he's kind of dirtyish blonde and has blue eyes and the longest lashes I've ever seen and he has a...what do you care?"

Hermione poked Ron in the side and grinned at him. "I think our little Harry has a crush."

"I think, my dear, he has," Ron grinned back. "And off to bed with you if you talked the whole night through with Snape. Seriously, Hermione, the whole night through?"

"He's gorgeous," she said exaggeratedly. "Absolutely dreamy and wonderful and I could sit for hours and talk to him because he's just gorgeous."

"Off to bed with her," laughed Harry and took her hand squeezed it in a silent thank you.

.

"Gran!" Aideen shouted and pushed the door to the kitchen wide open, running in, her cheeks bright red and her eyes brimming with tears and with that happy sheen to them which Severus had never seen before. She seemed to be terribly excited and happy and he, immediately, spotted something on her hand which hadn't been there before.

"Aideen?" Eleanor asked softly.

"Draco asked me to marry him!" she squealed and went to hug her grandmother who stood up without the usual grimace of pain and hugged back enthusiastically.

"Draco asked you to marry him?" asked Severus, feeling rather skeptical.

"I did, Uncle Severus," the boy in question came sauntering in, looking rather excited himself.

"Aren't you..."

"I love her. I want to marry her because I love her," he said steadily. "No other reason."

Severus arched his eyebrows, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"I know what you think, Severus. Seriously, I can see it in your face and I can never seen anything in your face. I love her," Draco said. "Honestly. We're not going to get married now or tomorrow or next week. I just want to marry her one day and before someone else can snatch her away from me."

Aideen laughed melodically. "I doubt anyone can," and she looked at him with so much love in her eyes that Severus was almost – but only almost convinced of his wish.

"But you're not pregnant, are you?" Eleanor asked, and the worry showed in her face.

Aideen shook her head. "No, I'm not and I won't be. We're not...I promised, Gran, and he knows that. But I believe him that he doesn't want to marry me for...that."

"Mrs Callaghan," Draco said formally, "I'd like to ask for your granddaughter's hand. I know I did it the other way around but I love Aideen. I want to be with her for the rest of my life and I know I'm young but you, and her, and of course Uncle Severus, are my family. My father repudiates me and he's possibly ashamed of me and you never were. You and Aideen and, yes, he, showed me what love could be like, what family could me like and I'd love to formalise that."

Eleanor, being utterly convinced by Draco's speech (something Severus wasn't – yet), broke out in a broad smile and hugged the young, blonde man. "You have my blessing," she said so softly that only Draco and Severus could possibly hear her. "You make each other happy or I'll be haunting you for the rest of my immortal life."

Draco nodded solemnly and hugged the old woman back.

.

That evening, late evening, to be precise, about eleven thirty, to be even more precise, when Severus had taken his heart into his hands and had been rather brave and had called Hermione, when Draco lay in bed thinking about Aideen and when Aideen was in bed staring happily at her engagement ring, Eleanor got ready for bed herself, the book she was reading on her nightstand and not, as usual in her hands. She lay down in bed, her old, serviceable nightgown warming her body and the old hot water bottle warming her feet, smiling to herself.

Severus was happy. Draco was marrying Aideen and wasn't doing anything to her favourite granddaughter which shouldn't be done before marriage. Severus was happy and in time, he would see that Miss Granger was someone worth keeping forever. He would marry her as well. Draco and Aideen would have beautiful grandchildren.

Eleanor Callaghan smiled and closed her eyes, the book forgot on her nightstand. She smiled and had her eyes closed and took a deep breath. And that was the last breath she would ever take.

.

_**Thank you! **_

_**Kill me, if you must. **_

_**[Sorry for the 'long' wait between updates (not compared to other people but compared to myself...). Just when I thought my classes were getting better, they get worse again. Yep, someone set fire to the keyhole (don't ask – it's a long story), someone badly insulted me, they all tried to provoke me into yelling (which I didn't do) and they were all a bloody nuisance. And a depressing nuisance. I don't want to do this anymore but...yeah well, I'll just see how it goes.]**_


	92. The Indicated Object Coordinate

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_What does it mean to specify, for instance, the indicated object coordinate? We could identify a person by name. We could report_ Ellen Blair said she'd like to come. _This might be adequate to identify the speaker, indeed the expression_ Ellen _might be sufficient. If, however, you do not know how this person is, or might be, it would be more helpful if we were to give some indication of why we have introduced her into the conversation. So we might say_ my friend Ellen Blair, _or _the former chairman Ellen Blair, _or_ a nurse in the ward called Ellen Blair,_ giving, in some sense, 'credentials' for her existence, and for her relationship to the speaker who is responsible for introducing her to the conversation. _

(Brown, Yule, 1983)

.

Aideen slumped into the kitchen, like she did every day. Her hair was an adorable mess and her feet seemed to barely leave the ground at all. She wore a lovely bathrobe with a flower-pattern on it, most likely borrowed off her grandmother but she smiled so sleepily and so divinely.

"Morning," she said hoarsely. "Tea?"

"Good morning, fiancée," replied Draco happily and put a cup of the tea he had made on her place at the table. "Did you sleep well?"

"Hm. I think so," she answered grumpily sniffing her tea. "Did you make that?"

"Yes," he said, feeling mildly put out.

"Should have known. Gran never makes Earl Grey in the mornings," she remarked and took a sip nevertheless.

"Since I made it...I just assumed...you like it, she likes it, I like it, why not do it for breakfast?" he asked with his little-boy-smile.

"Hm. Where is Gran?" she asked groggily, pushing the adorable mess she called hair from her face. No wonder she needed this long in the bathroom every morning, Draco mused. Delectable mess of hair that she had to tame into straight...redness.

"I haven't seen her this morning," he answered honestly. "Maybe she has a lie-in?"

"Gran? A lie-in?" Aideen seemed to be wide awake now. "Gran never slept longer than seven. Never. Not since I can remember. It's nine now. Did she go out? When did you get up?"

"Seven thirty," he said. It was true though. Mrs Callaghan never got up later than seven. Most days, even earlier than that. Most days, she knew how to wake people without actually shaking them awake just by clattering enough with dishes and cutlery.

"And you didn't see if she left the house? Or is she still upstairs?" Aideen's eyes went wide and she shook her head. "No. No. No. No. No."

"What?"

"No," she jumped off her chair and bolted out of the kitchen, Draco hot on her heels. She kept chanting her 'no, no, no' all the time and no, it couldn't be. She wouldn't be in her bed. She wouldn't be laying there unconscious or – Merlin forbid – dead – she would be out, shopping. Or with Severus. Or somewhere with her church friends. She was fine. Of course she was fine. Mrs Callaghan was made of terribly stern stuff. She couldn't just...not leave the bed in the morning.

Aideen stood in front of the door to her grandmother's bedroom. Door which was fully closed and she shot Draco a look which was part fear, part hope, part...he didn't know what exactly.

"Let her be okay," mumbled Aideen. "Just let her be okay." She pushed the door open and immediately rushed to the bed.

There she was, laying very straight underneath the covers, both her hands tucked underneath them, a smile on her lips and her eyes closed, the wrinkles smoothed from – sleep. Death. He didn't know which and he rushed to his girlfriend's – fiancée's – side.

"Draco, she can't be," said Aideen, holding the lifeless, limb hand of her grandmother.

"Is she...?"

"She's cold," the girl next to him sobbed, shoved the dead hand back underneath the duvet and threw herself into his arms. "She's dead," she whispered, clawing at his back, digging her fingernails into his skin.

Draco wasn't faring much better than her. He knew he hadn't cried when his own grandparents had died. He knew he would not be shedding a single tear over his father or mother but this woman, there, lying there in her bed, she brought tears even to his eyes. His vision swam and was blurry and unclear. This woman couldn't be dead. She just couldn't be gone.

He needed her. He needed her to show him how to love. He wasn't done learning at all. He wanted to do it right and only Mrs Callaghan could show him. She was the only one who had ever pulled on his ear. She was the only one who had hugged – just because. She had turned him into the person who had worked selling clothes and without her, he would have never met Aideen. She couldn't be gone.

Time didn't matter when he held Aideen and she held him, both in the bedroom, the sanctuary of Mrs Callaghan, and he couldn't tell if they had stood there for five minutes or five hours and he frankly didn't care. It was her that pulled back and looked at him with wept-out eyes and a red nose.

"I need to call Dad," she said shakily. "And Severus. We need to tell Severus."

Draco's eyes widened.

"I'll do it. Could you call the...I don't know? Who do you call? The doctor? But she's dead. I...I was too young when my grandfather died. Nobody else did since then. Who do we need to call? The..."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Your father should know."

"Right," she nodded, and he could see how much she was trying to pull herself together. "So, could you call Dad? I'll go over to Severus? No, the other way is better, don't you think? You should talk to Severus and I'll talk to the family. Funeral, right? She needs to have a funeral. And I know there was a list somewhere she wrote about hers. Can you...No, go to Severus and I'll talk to Dad and ask him to come up. Okay?"

Nodding quickly, he pulled her back into his arms.

"It's okay, Draco. We need to do this now. Severus needs to know and so does Dad and his brothers and sisters. They have to know. And Severus. Go and tell Severus now," she told him again and he nodded, looking at her as she disentangled herself from his embrace and looked at her dead grandmother, biting her lip – hard. He walked backwards slowly, dreading what was coming, not believing what had happened. "And Hermione," she added, softly, not taking her eyes off Mrs Callaghan. "Call her before you go over. I suppose Severus will need her now. We will al need someone now."

.

Something was making a dreadful noise. Worse than any alarm clock and worse than any fire alarm. It shook her deeply to the core and she felt herself sitting bolt upright. The mobile. On her nightstand. Vibrating, ringing.

"Shite," she muttered sleepily to herself. Had forgot to switch the tone to silent after Severus had called the night before. "Yes?" she mumbled into the phone.

"This is Draco," Malfoy's voice rang from the other end of the line but while it sounded like him, it didn't sound like him at all. Worried and anxious. Not something he usually associated with Draco.

"Draco. Did something happen?"

"You could say that," he answered slowly and her eyes widened. Severus. Something had happened to Severus.

"What?" she barked – and barking sleepily did sound rather curious. "What happened to him?"

"Who him? No, oh no, not Severus. Erm, Granger, listen...Mrs Callaghan..."

"Oh no," Hermione whispered and didn't even have to hear the end of the sentence. It didn't matter if the woman was hurt or...something unspeakable. Whatever had happened to her – Severus would be devastated. She knew how he trusted her, admired her, adored her, possibly loved her. Severus had only ever spoken highly of her. Not one derogatory remark. Nothing but kindness about Mrs Callaghan from his mouth. "What happened?"

"Aideen and I found her only a few minutes ago. I think she passed away in her sleep."

"Oh dear God, no," she whispered voicelessly. "Does he know?"

"I'm going over now," Draco said. "Aideen said it would be good if you could come on up some time soon? I don't know what's happening between you two but..."

"I'll need fifteen minutes or so to get ready," she said rushedly, surprised, and then not so surprised at Malfoy's kind tone.

"Make it a bit longer. I have to tell him and...I...sorry, but..."

"I'll be there in an hour," she nodded viciously to herself. "Give you a little time."

"Thanks. See you later."

She clicked off on the phone, staring at it. He would, definitely, try to push her away. If her theory was correct and Mrs Callaghan had grown into a person Severus had loved, had seen as a kind of mother figure, he would ultimately think that everyone who loved him (and she didn't have a single doubt in her mind that Mrs Callaghan had told Severus that she loved him – though she didn't know why she didn't have a single doubt in her mind) left him in the end, died or left him. Not that she was ready to admit that she loved him – not even close to it – but she did admit that she liked him and was fond of him and yep, alright, was in love with him, but...he would push her away. He would shield his heart and he would pull himself back into himself and try to be...no matter. She wouldn't let herself be pushed away.

Yes, she would die one day. He would die one day. They all would. But until that time, she was probably not going anywhere.

Oh dear Merlin. That almost sounded as if – no. Hermione shook her head. She wasn't quite ready to admit that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Snape but she did want to be with him, be there for him, in that difficult time. He would, naturally, send her away, or scold her or make derogatory remarks but in this hour, she knew she shouldn't care. And she wouldn't. Not at all.

But...

Mrs Callaghan was dead.

That woman had been suspicious of her at first but they had warmed to one another. She was the fairy tale grandmother. Always kind, always hiding her own troubles, always there for other people. She smiled (no, had smiled) a lot. She had taught Hermione how to make stew. She had been unprejudiced. Suspicious, yes, but unprejudiced. She had given Draco a home, had been there for Aideen after the kidnapping. Had put Severus to rights, possibly. She was kind.

She was a good person. Had been. A good person. Only that. A love-thy-neighbour sort of person. She lived like that. Had lived like that.

And now – now she was...

Hermione felt tears gathering in her eyes. No, she couldn't honestly say that she had known Mrs Callaghan well. They had spent a little time together, cooking, but she had seen that this woman had been good and kind and wonderful. And now she was gone and neither Draco, nor Aideen, nor Severus would ever get any help from her at all anymore.

.

Severus read the paper that had mysteriously appeared on his doorstep that morning with joy. No, really, he felt good in his skin – still. Hermione had talked to him on the phone for almost an hour again the night before. It hadn't been any kind of life-altering conversation – just a bit about the books they had read and what they had gathered from them and Hermione had told him about Potter and about his confession and had sworn him to secrecy.

Well – that one had been quite the surprise. Potter gay. Potter liking blokes. Potter being on the verge of having a boyfriend. Of course in strictest confidence. Officially, he didn't know anything. But Hermione Granger had told him. Had given him ammunition for Potter.

Even though – not sure how to make fun of that.

It had been a sort of open secret that Albus Dumbledore had swung that way, too. Nobody had ever talked about it loudly but at every new male Defence against the Dark Arts teachers, there had been whispers.

He had been surprised. At school, he had usually been able to tell which students swung which way – not with Potter. Had always pegged him as rather straight. Strange, that. But, it had made for a rather amusing portion of the conversation.

He put the paper down when his doorbell rang and only briefly wondered who might be at his door that early in the day. Possibly Draco, fetching something from his house for them for breakfast. Happened often enough.

He opened the door and it was indeed Draco but the expression on his godson's face was...strange. He looked as if he had been crying, or was close to crying and his eyes were red-rimmed and...weird.

"What is it?" he asked as the boy pushed in, and closed the door. "Draco?" he asked again as the boy only looked at him.

"I, erm, m..." he swallowed, "Uncle Severus," he tried to sound steady. "Aideen and me found..."

"What?" asked Severus, impatiently and he could only watch as his godson sat down and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"She..Mrs Callaghan died tonight," he said in a whisper and Severus thought he must have misheard.

"What?"

"Mrs Callaghan passed away," he mumbled and looked at Severus with sad, wide open eyes.

"What?"

"Severus it's...there is no other way I can say it," he whispered.

"She's what?" he thundered. "If that is a joke, it's a terribly bad one."

"Not a joke," Draco shook his head. "I can't say it any other way. She wasn't down at breakfast this morning and Aideen was worried and we looked for her and she was in her bedroom and..."

"No," he said, shaking his head, his insides feeling as if they had been shock-frozen. Dipped into ice-water, or in liquid nitrogen. It couldn't be.

"It's a bad joke, Draco," he said earnestly.

"No joke," he replied and a tear seemed to want to escape his eye. "Aideen went up and I went with her to check and she's just..."

"She's sleeping."

Draco shook his head. "No."

"No, it can't be," he whispered, more to himself than to his godson. It couldn't be true. One didn't joke about matters like these. Eleanor couldn't be dead. That woman had a few problems with her back but it was nothing more than that. She just had a backache. He could easily brew her a potion for it. It wouldn't be any kind of work. Just a few things thrown together in a cauldron and she could go pain free. She never complained. She never had any problems. She couldn't, not possibly, be dead. No. She wasn't.

He looked at his godson and stormed out of his house only seconds afterwards, didn't take a key, didn't take a coat, didn't take anything. He just stormed out of his house and, with his wand in his hand, unsure how to use it at all, unsure how he did it, he opened the front door to Eleanor's house. She would be sitting there, in on the joke, thinking it terribly stupid of Draco to pull such a prank. She would be sitting there, or standing there and making him drink her tea or maybe putting some breakfast in front of him and nothing more. She would smile and tell him that it had all been a joke. That none of this was happening.

She couldn't be dead. Eleanor couldn't die.

He tore up the stairs when she wasn't in the kitchen or the living room. He heard Aideen talking and she was probably helping Eleanor to hide, to make this seem more real, to make the joke even crueller and he followed that voice. Up the stairs. Up and to what he knew was Eleanor's bedroom – a room he had never been in.

"Oh Severus," someone gasped but it wasn't Eleanor's voice. It wasn't and he saw her.

Covered by old-fashioned linens, surrounded by flowery wallpaper and old, worn furniture.

She was there. In her bed. In her bed. Lying there. A smile on her face. Her eyes closed. Just lay there. Peacefully.

"Severus?" the voice he had heard a bit earlier said again. He whipped his head around and a crying Aideen, her mobile phone clutched to her ear looked at him anxiously.

"No," he said, shaking his head, sinking on his knees before the bed. "No," he said again.

.

She didn't think it was right to ring the doorbell and so she knocked. It didn't take long for someone to answer the door.

She had never seen him so downcast, so sad. A Malfoy sad. About a Muggle. She never thought the day would come but...it had. He almost looked as if he had cried, too and he was absolutely...appeared absolutely vulnerable.

"Draco," she whispered softly and when he didn't make a noise, just stepped aside a little, looked at her with those sad eyes that could have belonged to a person ten years younger, she couldn't help herself and went ahead, stepped directly to him and pushed her arms around him. She pulled him to her, and gave him, the person she had disliked (and who had disliked her) most of her life, a big hug. It was a bit awkward and strange and his arms only slowly came up to her back but when they did, they held her just as hers held him.

"It's going to be okay, Draco," she told him gently. "And thank you for telling me."

"It was nothing," he replied, pushing her away from him suddenly. "Of course it's going to be okay."

She nodded. Weakness. He had shown it but it had been brief and strange and curious and also a little enlightening. He had been vulnerable for one moment and now he was afraid of that vulnerability.

"They're in the kitchen," he said roughly. "Those...people will come soon to take her away as well and Aideen has called her parents and they already left London."

"That's good," she nodded. "Erm..."

"In the kitchen, Granger," he continued roughly. "See for yourself."

She nodded, it was stupid to have wanted to ask how they were anyway. From the looks of it, it had taken even Draco by complete surprise. It had devastated him and she didn't dare to imagine how Severus and Aideen would look like.

She nodded briefly once more and gave his upper arm a little squeeze before she took her shoes off (and she wasn't sure why she did it) and walked on socks and in her most comfortable jeans into the kitchen. This wasn't about looking pretty or impressing anyone. She had realised that even before dressing. It was about giving comfort and she wanted to. She wanted to be there for Severus. In an uncomfortable skirt, wasn't sure if she could.

Aideen sat there, opposite Severus, both just sitting there, staring into nothingness and at first, only Aideen looked up and saw her. It couldn't be described as a smile at all. It was more like a well-meaning grimace what Aideen displayed on her face but at least she acknowledged that she was there. Severus only sat and stared.

"Thank you for coming," Aideen said softly and that made Severus look up.

She couldn't ever remember seeing him look so lost. So small, so young, so...sad. He had never looked more weak or vulnerable than now. Not even in the Shrieking Shack. So desolate, so in despair.

His eyes found hers and the chair he sat on was moved by him, and scraped over the floor until he faced her and his arms opened wide and she smiled a little and followed the unspoken invitation into his arms. He wasn't in his right mind, she knew, otherwise he would have never pulled her onto his lap, would have never buried his face in her hair, would have never held her so tightly, closely. At least not in company but she knew – she just knew – that he accepted her, for now, being there and she hugged him and pressed his face against her chest and didn't care if he was in his right mind or not – he had turned to her for comfort.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(well, the door to the classroom I taught in was kicked in yesterday, someone was thrown out of school for calling another teacher saying a rather mean (if funny and true...in my eyes) thing to another teacher, and a snowball thrown through an open window in the third floor only missed me by inches. I hate this job but I shall stop complaining now.)**_


	93. The Communication of Information

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Linguists and linguistic philosophers tend to adopt a limited approach to the functions of language in society. While they frequently acknowledge that language may be used to perform many communicative functions, they nonetheless make the general assumption that the most important function is the communication of information._

(Brown, Yule, 1983)

.

Draco would afterwards (and afterwards meant anything – a day later, a year later, thirty years later, even) say and think that there was nothing more embarrassing and exposing than funerals. He had stuck to Aideen of course. He couldn't possibly leave her alone and as such, as close family, he had to sit in the first row during the memorial service. He had held Aideen's hand and had stroked it. She had been absolutely inconsolable. But so had Severus been. There had been nothing Draco had been able to do about that. He couldn't possibly hold his godfather's hand – especially since Granger had done so. And he himself, he had looked at the casket and had wondered, all the time, staring at it, how his life would go without her.

Wonderful, loveable Mrs Callaghan. He had known he would have to get a job and soon. The house had been paid for, it had been Mrs Callaghan's and had obviously fallen to Aideen's father but..he had wanted to continue living there. He had wanted to live next to his godfather and with Aideen – protecting her. Being there for her. Poor girl had only stopped crying when she had to do the organisational stuff. And she had been the one to – no surprise – know Mrs Callaghan best. She had known where to look for the documents and her last wishes. She had known which songs she would have liked and what kind of ceremony.

Severus had been no help. He had only sat there most of the time, in Mrs Callaghan's kitchen, mostly with Granger on his lap or at least nearby, staring into empty space and doing not much of anything else. Draco hadn't been able to feel it in his heart to be mad at him for that. He had been the one – despite the other blood-ties – to lose most.

Draco knew what he – and all those he considered family these days, Aideen, Severus, Aideen's family, to an extent even Granger – had to be grateful to Mrs Callaghan for bringing them all together, for forging them into a family, moulding them, helping them. And then, she had just lain there, in that casket – dead.

He had sat there, in the first row and he had known that he couldn't possibly shed tears. Tears were for girls. Not for him. Tears were for...anyone else. Not him, not Severus. Severus hadn't cried – he had just held Granger's hand and had been safe in his position in the third, or maybe fourth, row. Nobody had stared at him. Everyone had been able to see him and Aideen and the ring on Aideen's finger. She had left it there. And he would, he would keep his promise. Marry her and be a family. A real family. For Mrs Callaghan's sake. For her wishes.

No matter. He had wanted to cry while the priest or vicar or whatever Muggle churchman had spoken. He had wanted to shed his tears. To let those in the rows behind him now that he missed her and adored her and couldn't live without her and loved her. He did. This wonderful old woman. The one who had explained to him that there were free hugs, given...just because. Just because he was Draco and needed a hug. Not as a reward, not as anything else. The woman who had oozed love in all their lives and who had never given up on him. A wonderful, wonderful woman. Not like any other.

Draco had decided, shortly after the funeral, that he hated funerals and he had made a promise to himself that he would never again sit in the first row. Not if he felt like this. Not ever.

.

There were moments when he seemed to be absolutely inconsolable. When he didn't speak, he didn't listen, he didn't talk and he probably didn't even see what the world around him was saying or doing. To an extent, she understood and to another, certain extent, she felt jealous. It was stupid to envy a dead person but...in those moments, it seemed like he had only let go of her hand when he, or she, needed the bathroom.

At least she had been allowed to hold his hand. He had not, as she had suspected, pushed her away. In actual fact, he clung to her steadily. She even slept in his house – even though she did that in the living room, on the couch.

She knew he tried to keep control of himself and he tried to not let the grief show on his face and it did work – for stranger. Not for her. She saw him and she saw how he struggled and felt and she wanted to turn back the time for him. But of course, she couldn't. He went to the shops with her, when she made him and he hadn't even made fun of Harry when he had come over to offer his condolences and to bring Hermione a new set of clothes. Harry had been great, actually and he had brought Teddy which, at least, had brought Aideen a little bit of joy.

Even she felt that there was something missing in that house and after that first dreadful day when she had sat in Mrs Callaghan's kitchen together with Severus, as well as Draco and Aideen, when nobody had spoken a word at all, they had all, somehow, silently, decided to go to Severus's house. The hole there, the thing missing had been too big, too large, too overwhelming – even to her and she did feel like an outsider in their grief.

The moment Snape had announced that she was to go to the funeral with him (and yes, it had been an announcement), she had been rather surprised and wondered – did he need her contact, did he want her there or...what other reason?

Truth was, and she realised that as soon as they were surrounded by black-clad people, all trying to talk to Severus as well (and all of whom she had never seen in her life), that he had taken her as someone to hold on to and she wasn't sure whether to be flattered or not. She felt like her hand was completely bruised by the time her casket had been lowered into the ground but he had, afterwards looked at her and at home, he had held her and kissed her and she had known, then, that this was his way of saying thank you.

.

Somehow, she was a steady presence through all this. She was always there and she always smiled the appropriate kind of smile and she always held his hand when his even made the slightest twitch towards hers.

Eleanor was gone but in the days following her death, there were a few things he realised. She had died only hours after he had told her he was happy, only hours after Draco had asked for Aideen's hand in marriage. Eleanor had been – able to let go. Had he, her granddaughter and his godson been her reason to continue living?

He had remembered that Christmas when he had first met Eleanor's children – almost two years ago now – and how Stephen had said how depressed she had been from time to time, how she had never let one in on her sorrows and her worries. How they worried about her because she had been all alone. And then he had been there and Draco and Aideen, all filling her house.

And – the smile on her face. Eleanor had died with a smile on her face. He had seen it, he had felt the peacefulness of her parting. There had been no struggle, no surprise, not like all the other times he had seen death. No. She had left on her own accord in her own time. Happy. Content.

Still – it did not make anything easier. It did not make it easier for him. He had no idea how to handle Granger – Hermione – now that he had basically clung to her all those long days. That he had made her sleep on his couch when he had only wanted to pull her into his bed and cling to her some more (not sexually, mind – just...clinging). Now that he couldn't even explain to himself why he had done that. Why it had seemed to be the right thing to do.

Eleanor would have given him an answer and a very clear one but – this time, there was nobody to argue with when he said that her answer (love. It had all been about love as well with her, in the end) was the wrong one. He would have said, possibly, if they would have discussed this (which they wouldn't have because they wouldn't be in this situation if Eleanor were still alive), that it was merely someone whom he knew didn't mind touching him. That he was only craving some kind of contact and that she wasn't repulsed. She would have said that this was all rubbish and that plenty of people didn't mind touching him and then she would have wrapped him in her arms and he would have smelt her smell – bread and bergamot and tea and something Eleanor – and he wouldn't have been able to finish his argument with her. Eleanor who had taught him how to accept a hug, how to accept … love, would have just ended it. She would have just hugged him. Ended it on her terms.

He...missed it. He missed her dreadfully. There was a big hole in the house next door and he couldn't understand how Draco and Aideen managed to sleep there, to stay there even. He even felt that she wasn't sleeping in the house next door anymore. Or he thought he did.

Granger...Hermione – she never went far from his side. She was there, even slept on the couch and he was...no, he found himself grateful. She had stuck to him during the entire funeral, before, through it, afterwards. When all of Eleanor's family had come and had wanted to talk to him and she hadn't moved on inch from his side. Had held his hand tightly. And he had her there and it had been...good. Right. She had stuck to him even when he hadn't wanted to talk at all, hadn't wanted to listen. When he hadn't wanted to see anything, she had stayed. She hadn't talked, she hadn't made him talk. She had just been there, a living, breathing anchor in the sea of...grief. How awfully poetic that sounded. But she had been. So un-Granger-like. Just there, watching him in silence and judging what she could say and whether she should stay and she always slept on the couch and even when Potter brought her fresh clothes, she hadn't said much. When Potter had been at the funeral, she had tried to shoo him away from him. And for that, as well, he was grateful. Not that he had greatly minded the way the boy had shaken his hand...

Still. He felt the loss and he couldn't remember ever having felt the loss of a person quite as much as before.

Dumbledore would have possibly come close – if he hadn't been the one to...no, when Dumbledore had died, he had spent the days and nights following alternately retching over a toilet bowl and showing the thoughts away behind Occlumency-shields. Now, the grief had hit him hard. Very hard. And he hadn't found it in his heart to push her away.

.

The funeral had been two days ago and Hermione still stayed, most of the time, at Spinner's End. She didn't honestly think that Severus would do something stupid – he had never ,not during one moment of this difficult time, seen him as suicidal but she was worried nevertheless. Not that he would do something stupid but that he, quite simply put, would push her away if she went away one single moment. He would forget, she feared, that she was there with him the entire time and she didn't want that. She wanted him to remember that he had held her hand and had her stay with him. And that she slept on his lumpy couch. She wanted him to know that she stayed with him, even when the first flush of grief was gone and everyone had seemingly gone back to their lives.

She knew that this was when it was toughest, hardest and so she stayed on his couch, and slept there, waited for him, every morning, to get up and walk past the living room into the kitchen to make coffee and tea (he always made both). He never talked much during breakfast but there were moments when he looked at her like she was...almost as if she were a present, a Christmas present. Only briefly, really, but those were the moments when her stomach flipped and when her insides melted.

That morning, however, the third after the funeral (and she should really go home soon, not stay on his couch longer), he didn't just walk past the living room into the kitchen. That morning, and she had honestly no idea how their relationship (if she could call it that) had progressed, he stood in the doorway and watched her, covered with blankets, laying on his couch.

She had heard him coming and she had pushed herself on her elbow.

"Good morning," she said gently.

He said nothing. He only stood there for a moment and looked at her and she could see that he had his wand in his fingers and before she knew what was happening, he had made the couch a little broader and a little wider and suddenly, he stood there, looking down at her.

He remained silent and that was odd, just stood there and looked.

.

She had been there. Throughout that bad time, she had stayed with him. She hadn't flinched away from him and she hadn't cared that he had been moody. He didn't know what else there was to get through with another person.

And the way she lay there – on his couch (his! couch) – she looked utterly...adorable. He usually only walked past her, away from her, to make her breakfast (that much he owed her for staying) but that morning, when she had stayed again, he couldn't. She just lay there and he had to...he wanted to...

He flicked his wand and stepped closer and magic was a little rusty coming but it came and the couch broadened and widened and there was room next to her. She didn't shift but...he only looked at her and slowly, very slowly, sat down, then swung his legs onto the couch.

She only looked at him when he lay down next to her and the next moment, he wasn't sure why, he had pulled her into his arms and she put her head on the juncture of head and shoulder and had her eyes shut tightly.

"That's nice," she whispered.

He said nothing, only smelled her hair and dug his fingers a little deeper into her back.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(short and just passing some time but it's a chappie, right? And I hope you're glad I managed one. I haven't been killed yet.)**_


	94. Concept of Proxemics

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Although there is no general theory to relate posture and position cues to the communications of like-dislike and potency or status, a few concepts of broad relevance are available. A case in point is Hall's (1963) concept of proxemics, or the study of man's use of space as an aspect of his culture. Some proxemic variables are: distance between a speaker and his listener, the speaker's orientation (that is, the degree to which his body is turned toward, versus away from, his listener), touching, and eye contact between the speaker and the listener. Thus, the concept of proxemics subsumes variations in posture and distance and relates to the immediacy of interaction, which is the extend of mutual sensory stimulation between two persons. In addition to eye contact and directness of body orientation, Machotka (1965) noted that the accessibility of a speaker's body to the listener (such as the openness in the arrangement of his arms) also communicates varying degrees of liking. Such accessibility can be also construed as a proxemic variable. _

(Mehrabian, 1972)

.

Very slowly, he stroked her curls. They were soft and bouncy and wild and just within reach. He almost flowed through his fingers and he couldn't stop himself. She just lay in his arm and her curls were there to be stroked. Soft hair, nice hair, even a if it was a bit...unruly. Her fingers were almost still on his chest, fingernails neatly cut. She just lay, she just lay and let herself be held by him.

This had...this was something. It had grown. She hadn't bolted and she hadn't let him down. She had done so much more than he had expected – hoped for. What, he wondered as he twisted a curl around his finger, could possibly drive her away now? He was certain. She had stayed for him. No other reason. Just for him. She had skipped Uni to be by his side and his own feelings...he couldn't describe it. He was grateful and whenever he even remotely thought about her staying there with him, being there for him, the tiny heart in his chest swelled.

"Severus?" she asked slowly, looking up with her incredibly brown eyes. He...hadn't kissed her since the day Eleanor had died. There had always been more important things, holding her hand, and stroking her cheek and it had never been that kind of passionate before. It had been quiet, almost calm if there hadn't been any of the outside...things.

If this had gone this way without Eleanor dying...no, it couldn't have gone that way. He would have never realised how reliable she was and he would have never been convinced that she was there, for him. Only for him.

He still hadn't kissed her for too many days and he, yes, he missed it. Now he was close to her again. Very close. Her thigh pressed against his, almost thrown over his legs, really. Almost. She could. If she wanted to. She should.

He didn't know what to say. There were no words left to say except, possibly, thank you. He had to thank her, he wanted to thank her, he should thank her but the words...they stuck in his throat and he couldn't. He just couldn't speak and even his breath had been taken away the moment she had begun looking in his eyes.

When had this started, he wondered briefly. He couldn't pinpoint it. He respected her and that had begun a little sooner than everything else. Possibly the moment she had walked, erect, into Malfoy Manor for the very first time after the war. Because of...Aideen. Her apparent eagerness in helping that girl and supporting him in his quest for her. But the rest? He wasn't sure. His determination to find out whether he could truly have someone in his life whom he wanted to spent the rest of it with and then the realisation that this could, if anyone, be only her. The logical part of his brain seemed to have left him though the moment he had knelt beside Eleanor's bed and had held her...cold hand.

When he had seen her then, he had only wanted to hold her. Hermione as someone who had hugged as well. Who had felt good against him, though completely differently good, when hugging. And he hadn't seemed to be able to let go off her.

Now this. It made no sense to ponder the question at which precise moment she had become his anchor. In Diagon Alley or before – it didn't make any difference. She had stayed with him when he had experienced more darkness and more grief in his life than ever before in his sorry little existence. Even after...well.

He sneaked his hand, the free one, the one not stroking her curls, up to her face and touched her chin very gently. He wanted to kiss her now. He hoped, somehow, that she was smart enough, emotionally smart enough, smarter than him who would be at a total loss, to understand that he was grateful if he only looked at her and kissed her. He had to kiss her. It had been too long without a kiss. Too long. Much too long.

"Everything alright?" she asked, looking into his eyes, his fingers still on her chin and hers on his chest and...neck.

He didn't reply in any way. He didn't nod, he didn't speak but he tipped her chin up a little and bent his head just a little and touched his lips to hers, brushed them over hers really, just a gentle touch. Just the beginning of a kiss, a promise of more, a promise of anticipation and anticipation itself.

She said nothing then, but the next moment, their lips barely separated, she pressed hers on his firmly.

.

"You suppose she's alright up there?" Ron asked, munching on a bit of bacon butty.

"She seemed alright enough when I brought her clothes," he shrugged. "Didn't seem alright during the funeral but nobody is, are they?"

"Funeral are...stupid affairs. I mean..." Ron blushed slightly and fidgeted.

"I know," Harry replied, shutting himself up. He knew. He remembered. There had been too many funerals they both had to attend and Harry had only gone to Mrs Callaghan's because, well, frankly speaking because he had been worried about Hermione and Snape but that...he hadn't told Ron yet and now seemed as good a time as any but Ron was quicker.

"And she's still there. She hasn't owled or something, has she?"

Harry shook his head. "

"I don't suppose Snape has an owl flying around if he only just...got his magic back."

"Did she i-post then?" he asked.

"I what?"

"I-post...the thing with the computer?"

"Oh, email? I don't...do you have an email address?" Harry smirked and gave Teddy, who was by now bouncing on his knee impatiently, a bit of his own bacon butty.

"No, what's that?" asked Ron, grinning at Ted who had changed his appearance to that of Ron and was, silly enough, demanding another bit of food. "I think he's taking after me," he muttered happily.

"She can't send an email if neither of us has an address, I think. I don't really know. Dudley never had the internet at home, I think. Or I didn't know. Doesn't matter. I'm sure she'll be home soon. Not like her to miss that many classes, is it?"

"Nah, but..." he handed the baby more breakfast.

"Stop feeding him that," admonished Harry. "He should eat healthy things and should eat slowly. You're really not setting a good example."

"Sorry," Ron mumbled. "But he looks like me."

"He looks like Snape from time to time," Harry rolled his eyes.

I mean do you think that they're...?"

"You don't suppose she stays there because they...you know?"

"They what...oh, that? Erm," Harry blushed. "I don't know. But...I mean the snogging was weird enough. I don't want to imagine them...that's just eurgh."

"Exactly, eurgh. But it would...I mean she does stay there. Even though she never let me..."

"Ron, stop there. I really don't need my breakfast coming up again. And that's just...even though..."

"Even though what? You think they're doing it?"

Harry shrugged. "I didn't mean that. I meant Snape at the funeral. He looked...no, he sort of leaned on Hermione. She didn't let go off his hand once. Or the other way round, no idea which. But he sort of looked like he...depended on her."

"You didn't say," Ron replied, slightly annoyedly.

"I know because I thought...well, you are a bit protective of Hermione."

"So are you, mate," he threw a crumb of toast at his best friend and tried to glare.

"Yeah I know but it was Hermione doing the protecting there. With Snape I mean. I don't...well, I honestly don't think that they're doing anything which Hermione doesn't want."

"And if Hermione wants it?"

Harry shrugged again. "I'm used to babies now and since Teddy does look like Snape sometimes, I suppose we could manage."

Ron's eyes widened and continued to do so until Harry burst out in a gale of laughter, shocking both his godson and his best friend.

"Seriously, if she wants to do it, she knows how to protect herself."

.

She loved kissing him. He tasted nice, even that morning and he held her very gently but closely and he just knew what kind of pressure to put on his fingers on her back or her face or in her hair. She felt protected and cherished and most of all...sort of...well. Hot. Yes, hot. Parts of her body did things on their own accord and even her fingers stayed perilously close to the hem of his t-shirt, sometimes even sneaked underneath it and she wanted...wanted...yes, she wanted, for heaven's sake. All of him. Feeling him.

Hermione had responded eagerly to her kisses and she could feel his fingers twitch and she could feel...him.

She wanted to talk to him, wanted to say something but any words were cut off by her own laboured breathing or the kisses he gave her. Brilliant kisses, wonderful kisses, amazing kisses. They made her feel...alive. Hadn't felt so alive in...ever. Not ever and she couldn't think clearly but her hands knew what to do and her fingers knew what to do and in a second or maybe less or maybe more, she had pushed his t-shirt up and over his head and there she was – admiring his chest with her eyes and fingers and worshipping it and...it was too much, or not enough, she wasn't sure which.

She wasn't sure of anything anymore but the feelings of his hand on her thigh suddenly, inching her old-fashioned nightgown up and up and up.

.

"I miss her," said Aideen, softly, a lone, silent tear trickling down her cheek as she lay in Draco's arms, the television running mutely.

"I miss her too," he replied unhappily. "She would have never allowed us to be like this, here."

"She would have understood," Aideen said and it almost sounded as if she were choking on her own words or on her grief or on anything else.

"That she would have. But she would have sat somewhere to watch that we didn't do anything stupid," he chuckled mirthlessly.

"We won't, Draco. No matter if she's here or not, we won't."

"Of course not," he said solemnly. "I made a promise to her. Well, more or less."

"What?"

"I had to make a promise, Aideen," he laughed a little, "She threatened me with, erm, shears, should I ever get too close to you."

"She would," Aideen sighed and another tear ran down her cheek, gathering in her tiny dimple for a moment. "I miss her."

"I miss her too. She just...she taught me."

"She taught you?" asked Aideen, pushing herself up on her elbow, arching an eyebrow the same way Mrs Callaghan had always done.

"She did," nodded Draco earnestly. "I...before I came here...well, just ask Severus or Hermione how I was. What I acted like."

"The Death-Eater-thing?"

"How do you know?" he sat up quickly, almost shoving Aideen off the couch.

"Severus, Gran, the abduction. I thought you knew I knew. I mean..."

"I do. Sort of but not all of..."

"I love you, Draco," she said, pulling him beside her again and cupping his face in her hands. "The way you are. Well, the way you are now but then again, I'd probably kick you out on your sorry arse if you ever try to kill anyone else again. I hope you know that."

He nodded mutely and found his face pressed against Aideen's chest, happily sniffing in her scent and enjoying her understanding, her proximity and the thought that he wouldn't have to worry about getting his sorry arse kicked away from Aideen. He wouldn't ever try to kill anyone. Or let anyone tell him that he should kill someone either. He wanted...

"I want to be a good man for you," he whispered against her breastbone. "And a good husband in time."

"You will," she whispered back, carding her fingers in his hair. "I'm sure you will."

.

She didn't ever think she would be comfortable lying naked on someone else's couch. Completely naked. Not a stitch on her. Nothing. Bare. Naked. Naked. Her legs entangled with Severus's and her arm thrown over his chest, fingertips drawing needless but happy patterns on his bare skin. She had never thought that she could be in a living room, on a couch, naked, with someone else who was naked as well. But here she was, their clothing on the floor next to the couch. And she was damn comfortable.

He couldn't possibly be, with her lying almost completely on him. He had enlarged the couch, yes, but now, after this, she needed to be closer. As close as possible. It was most certainly a few steps up from whatever it had been Ian had done. More than a few steps possibly. More than plenty of steps and it had, somehow, magicked a happy, tired, exhausted smile on her face and he seemed awfully relaxed as well. Hell, he was even smiling down at her from time to time and his fingers were drawing just the same happy, nonsensical patters on her back that she drew on his chest and he had put his cheek against her temple and his breathing was – even and deep and...content. His bloody breathing seemed to be content. Or maybe it was just her sex-muddled brain speaking. Or not speaking. She wasn't sure which but she was...happy. Here. Naked on a couch. In a living room. Where, if Severus wouldn't have had any curtains, anyone could have seen them. And Draco and Aideen just a few yards away...oh. She only hoped that they hadn't heard her. She had always been quite eloquent and had mostly (well...) known how to regulate her volume. But this...well. The volume had been...exorbitant and of her eloquence had gone right out of the window when his tongue had...she blushed even thinking about it.

The chest she lay on and touched went up and down rapidly and she looked curiously up at him to see him – chuckle.

"What's so funny?" she asked softly.

"Your blush and the way your thoughts are visible even when I don't see your face," he answered, smiling and pulling her up further to kiss her briefly.

"They're not visible," she huffed, pulling away a bit.

"Oh yes, they are," he smirked almost Snape-like.

"No, they're not."

"I know anyway," he countered.

"What do you know?"

"What you were thinking about?"

"Well, of course you'd know the general direction of my thoughts, given how we...well, the way we are right now."

He smirked and pulled her back to him. He said nothing, absolutely nothing and she could still feel a sort of self-satisfied smirk oozing off him.

So, he had heard her and he probably realised that it had all been his fault that the poor woman on the other side of the road (whoever lived there – or if someone lived there at all) or Draco and Aideen had heard her. She chuckled herself. It didn't matter. She was comfortable on this couch, even if she was naked and was on it with a very naked man.

.

Well. Well. Well.

She had, well, been not really quiet and the rest of her body had...well. This was probably one thing where he could agree with himself that he had not failed. He had made Hermione Granger scream and like any man, warm-blooded or not, it filled him with a sort of pride. No. Not a sort of pride but ridiculous, happy, joyful pride. He couldn't help himself. He had to smirk and he could tell when she remembered certain, well, aspects of their morning on the couch. Was fun to watch her blush and he had magicked that on her as well.

Well.

She looked up at him almost adoringly and he had to kiss her again, taste her lips and run his fingers along her bare sides, tickling her ribs and she, immediately, flinched and tickled him back and...

Oh she laughed and it was almost like music to his ears but it was then too soppy to say so aloud or to even think so aloud. But he had definitely discovered her weak spot. Ticklish. Massively ticklish. She laughed and she tried to tickle him but he seemed to have better self control but she writhed against him and it was just...

too good to be true really.

A beautiful young woman in his arms on his couch, in his living room, in the daylight. Letting herself be touched by him and...no, he should not be thinking along those lines. She was there on her own accord and she had kissed back eagerly and was kissing back eagerly and she had done all the other things just as eagerly as he had. She had screamed the entire house down, for heaven's sake and no other woman had ever done so. No other woman (and there were only few) had ever looked at him like this and had most certainly never reacted to his touch like this. Had never smiled at him like this. And she was...she knew exactly who he was.

Oh dear, he was beginning to repeat himself and he was idiotic and it was ridiculous. This entire thing was ridiculous. He was almost behaving like a love-sick puppy. Or fool. No matter which but he was only a man after all and she was wriggling on top of him and writhing against him and her skin was soft and her fingers and lips insistent.

.

_Narcissa_,

he wrote with almost trembling fingers,

_I have to apologise. My behaviour after the fall of our former master was disgraceful and not worthy of any Pureblood. I was admittedly a bit confused by the entire shift in our world and I took it badly. There is nothing I can say or do to make you believe me but I have long realised what should be the most important factor in my life and I've failed in showing you that you are, as my wife, should be this, most important matter. _

He sighed. This would never do. Narcissa wouldn't believe that sort of idiocy. Maybe – he could try with blackmail. Maybe, he thought, that would work after he hadn't even heard from his son for over four weeks, or had it been longer? It didn't matter. Leopards obviously didn't change their spots and Draco wouldn't get a single Galleon if he married that Muggle. Those were all alike. Gwendolyn had been sneakier than any Slytherin and...no, he needed his wife back, even if she wasn't his wife anymore.

Narcissa wouldn't hesitate to take him back. She had always been the one who had been more in love with him. Or had possibly even loved him.

Well, he would have to humiliate himself but only with Narcissa, he could bring the name of Malfoy back to former glory. And maybe she was able to produce another healthy child. Or maybe she had found corners of the earth on her travels where they could find a pureblood child to adopt...

_Narcissa,_

_I was weak and wrong and you had every right to leave me but please come to your sense and come back. The family needs you. _

_Lucius_

Well, if that didn't do the trick, he wasn't sure what would. He had admitted to basically everything – she couldn't expect more of him.

.

"We should tell the family," Aideen said suddenly, still looking slightly shell-shocked at the noises that had come from next door. Clearly, those had not respected her gran's wishes. Oh but Aideen would. And Draco would. She would make sure of that. And if she had to marry sooner rather than later.

If she had known...she would have made sure that Gran was still there for the wedding. She needed her gran. More than her mother. More than anyone – well, apart from Draco. But she needed her and she wasn't there anymore and...she needed – Draco. And she wanted to get married. Soon.

Especially after she heard what kind of noise Hermione over there had just made. Sex should be either really, really dreadful or more than wonderful.

"Your family saw the ring, Aideen," said Draco, puzzled. "And you told your parents and I talked to your father."

"Yes, yes, I know," she said distractedly. "I meant your family."

"My family? No."

"No?"

"Yes, Draco. We're getting married. And I don't want to wait forever, and no matter what you say, your family should know. Let them decide whether they support us or..."

"They won't," he spat. "You know what my family is like. A part of my family tried to kill you!"

"Still," she said steadily. "One day, you will miss all the opportunities you didn't have. And you are going to regret not telling them and to shut them out completely. I swear, if you don't contact them, I will or I will tell Severus to tell them."

"He's busy otherwise," scowled Draco.

"I'm sure even he has to stop once in a while," she quipped.

"Not from the sound of it," muttered Draco.

"For heaven's sake, you knew that we wouldn't do that before we got married," she huffed. "And just because your godfather can't control himself, you don't have to be angry with me."

She pushed herself up from the couch and, rather angrily and annoyedly, she walked into the kitchen. Gran was everywhere but she couldn't leave – and wouldn't know where to go to anyway and if Draco got over his fit of...jealousy, well, it was maybe nice to continue living there with him. But only if he got over that jealousy.

She found a pad and pen and sat in front of it, unsure what to write about and where to send it to anyway, but Draco wasn't coming and...she put her face in her hands and felt the tears welling up in her eyes again.

.

She got dressed and he watched her. He had to watch her really. She was far from graceful while picking up her clothes and putting them on but it was fun to watch her. Curious, that. She wore a lovely blush and while he knew that the next few days would probably be a little uncomfortable, and a little awkward (wasn't that what everyone always said? New re-re-relationships were awkward, right?), he also knew that if they managed the next few days, it would, possibly, probably, last for a while. He hoped.

Some things had been rather...enlightening. Her snuggling. Her hunger. Her lust. Her passion and the way she had mumbled his name over and over again and had...well, screamed it.

He got up as well and immediately put on his t-shirt again – yes, she had seen his ugly and scarred body but there was no need to parade it around in front of her as well. She hadn't made any kind of comment about him or the way he looked, but he didn't want to rub her nose in – or have her rub his nose in if he overdid it. Didn't want to provoke her with her perfect body to make fun of his. Not at all.

The moment he stood there in only his t-shirt, she beamed at him and bounced towards him, almost into his arms.

"You know," she whispered, pushing her chin against his chest. "I, erm...I should get some breakfast and then get home for a while. If that's okay?"

He had the weird, strange feeling that she had wanted to say something else but had backed out at the last moment. He knew it made no sense in pressing her and he wasn't sure he wanted to hear what she had to say in any case. But her going home...he didn't want it but he had no other chance but to let her. Let her go and get some of the much needed...

Oh dear, he hadn't been alone for almost a week. She hadn't left him alone and he, the proverbial lone wolf, hadn't even minded her being there. Not at all. He wanted her to stay and he didn't want to be alone without Hermione to hold onto or without Eleanor to talk to.

He felt absolutely pathetic but nevertheless he felt himself clinging very tightly to her, wrapping her arms as tight as it would go around her, held her as close as she could get.

And she...responded. She held him just as tightly and held him back and he suddenly knew that he could let her go – and she would come back to him.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(I missed you. It's been an awful week and rather busy but my pupils seem to be warming to me, at least two of the classes I teach, but it's still rather a lot of work when all is said and done. I can't believe the same boy tried to hug me twice (and he's almost 20) and told me that I am a good teacher. Well. I don't like being hugged but...it was nice to hear. I still miss you all though and hope to hear from you. Tomorrow is the last day before the break so I might be able to update more often...)**_


	95. The Vocal Auditory Channel

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_The use of the vocal-auditory channel, for example, is certainly a feature of human speech. Human linguistic communication is typically generated via the vocal organs and perceived via the ears. Linguistic communication, however, can also be transmitted without sound, via writing or via the sign languages of the deaf. Moreover, many other species (e.g. dolphins) use the vocal-auditory channel. Thus, this is not a defining feature of human language._

_(Yule, 1985)_

.

Aideen stared at the empty sheet of paper. This was ridiculous. She didn't know how to address wizards, she didn't know how to write and she didn't know what to write. Those were her fiancé's parents, or his father at least (since she had no idea where the mother was) and she couldn't even begin. Dear Mr Malfoy? Dear future-father-in-law? No, too many hyphens. Dear...what was his first name anyway?

She huffed softly to herself and, since it had been quiet for a while next door, she packed up her pen and her paper and opened the kitchen door. Draco was probably still sulking in the living room and she couldn't help him with that. It was annoying. He was annoying with his jealousy. He could get all the sex he wanted – after the were married. She was merely observing her gran's wishes and if he couldn't respect them – well, bugger off.

Still...she shoved the pen and paper in the back pocket of her jeans and climbed over the tiny wall that separated her gran's garden (erm, or her garden? Her father's garden? She knew the house belonged to her father now but she was...living there) from Severus's garden and landing on her feet on the other side, she wanted to knock on the kitchen door but he already sat inside, over a cup of tea or something and smiled. He bloody smiled. She could see it through the glass and he looked so happy. Even in his grief (which had been massive), he had found something to smile about. Well, she had heard that sex did that to men. Not that this weakened her resolve. Draco smiled more often than Severus anyway.

He saw her, his smile faltered and he opened the door for her.

"Hiya," she said softly and pulled the pen and the wrinkled paper from her pocket. "Mind if I sit?"

He shook his head. "Tea?"

"Lovely," she sighed. "Erm, Severus...is Hermione gone?"

"How did you know she was...oh dear," realisation seemed to dawn on him and she smirked.

"Yep," she nodded. "You might want to consider being a bit, erm, quieter next time or maybe there is something you can do with that wand of yours." She blushed. "Shite. Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound so...yeah. Magic. Something. Or more...sound-proof stuff around...forget it," she stuttered. "Just forget I said something."

Severus, in turn, blushed violently as well and that was a bigger miracle than him smiling, actually. Severus seemed too old to be prone to blushing. He seemed too sensible for it but there he was. Glowing bright red. His ears, his cheeks, even his nose and chin and forehead. She didn't even know that chins and foreheads and noses could blush. Well. His throat as well.

She grinned. "Just forget it," she laughed. "Anyway, I've come for a more, erm, serious matter."

"Oh," his blush slowly, very slowly subsided and he seemed rather happy when the kettle boiled and he could pour her some tea. "What is it?" he asked, turning back to her and putting a tea cup in front of her, his skin the normal, regular tone again. Sallow and pale.

"Erm, Draco's...parents. We will go through with the wedding and all and I thought they ought to know. I mean it's only fair. They can still decide that they want nothing to do with him because I'm...just a lowly Irish...person..."

Severus shook his head, interrupting. "This has nothing to do with any kind of social standing you have in the Muggle world. Even if you were...Princess Margaret, or, what are they called these days? Erm, Eugenie? Beatrice? It wouldn't matter."

"Didn't you say that he had a sort of aristocrat-girlfriend?" Aideen asked, frowning.

"Had being the operative word. I had a letter from him a few days ago. He was, apparently, dumped, by that Viscountess person and, well, let's just say that right now, it wouldn't matter if you were the Queen herself."

"Are you saying that I shouldn't write to him?"

Severus shrugged one shoulder. "I suppose there is no money left for him to inherit so it doesn't matter if he gets disowned but..." he paused and looked at her thoroughly. "Aideen, not all wizards are nice. And not all families-in-law are nice, you should know that. But a normal family-in-law will not hurt you the way that Draco's family could..."

"They have already," she whispered. "But it's family and shouldn't they at least..."

"You cannot protect yourself against wizards and witches. You have your grandmother's bravery and her courage, I know that but bare hands and a kitchen spoon cannot protect you against magic. You know this. Marry Draco, by all means, but if he says his family stays out of it, his family stays out of it."

Aideen shook her head. "But they have a right to know and Draco...I know he seems far away from his family but he will regret that one day."

He sighed, looking questioningly at her. "I will talk to him. You don't write, I will see what the atmosphere is like and...we'll go from there," he said and she knew that there was something else he had wanted to say but didn't dare. She nodded her consent slowly and put her elbows on the table, her face in her hands.

"I miss her council," she whispered quietly, knowing that, of all the people she knew, he was the one understanding this best.

"I miss it too," he whispered back and she looked up in his face, watched how it slowly faded into sadness and back to neutrality.

"She always what to do. She had her standards and she was easy to disappoint but only for a few minutes. She went back to hugging you after that and told you to think about what you're doing better the next time. I don't know what to do without her now. I don't know how to turn to," she tried hard to hold back any kind of tears.

"You can always turn to me. I might not be as good as she was but I still have a few years to practice," he smiled gently and pulled her hands away from her face.

"I don't know you like this," she blinked. "Always helpful but not this...kind."

He nodded slowly. "I miss her," he said as a way of an explanation and she understood.

.

"Well. It's certainly nice to have you back," Ron tried to hide his grin. "And no love bites," he added, staring at her neck and grabbing her chin, pushing her head to one side and then the other. "Nope. None. Merlin's balls."

"Ron!" she shrieked. "You can't be more obvious and...ack." She tried to step away when both Harry and Ted began to stare at her neck as well.

"I would have thought there would be at least one," Ron muttered and let go off her chin to rummage in his pocket. He pulled out a few coins and handed them to Harry with a grumble.

"Are you still betting on my...love life?" she cried out. "How old are you? Fifteen?"

"We were too immature to bet when we were fifteen. And if you had got it on with Snape when you were fifteen...that's just yuck."

She rolled her eyes. "You know that I stayed there because I needed help with his mourning, grieving, he needed someone to support him and as his..." she paused, blushing slightly.

"Girlfriend?" Ron helped.

"I don't know but as his something..."

"Bit of stuff?" Harry helped.

"Lover?"

"Her-My-Oh-Kneeee!" Ted crowed.

"Yes, as his something," she continued, frowning, "I thought I should stay. I explained this before. I slept on his couch. End of story," and it wasn't even a lie. She hadn't set foot in his bedroom. The shower, yes, but alone. While he made breakfast. But not even a peek into the bedroom of her...something, someone.

Harry arched an eyebrow and Ron shook his head insistently. "Seriously."

"Seriously. What have you been up to?"

"I watched Ted the last two nights. In a row," Ron tried to wriggle his eyebrows suggestively and it was Harry's turn to blush. "And someone, and you know who, didn't come in until the morning. When Teddy and I already had breakfast."

"Oh," Hermione grinned and poor Harry blushed even more. Not a chance she would tell those boys what she and Severus had done on the couch. Not a chance in hell. Never. Ever. They would have to figure it out by themselves.

"I like him," Harry stuttered. "And...I like him."

"Fair enough," Hermione tried to stifle her wholly inappropriate giggle. "That leaves Ron, doesn't it? Any ideas whom we could fix him up with?" she winked at Harry.

"Lavender," he shrugged, probably glad that his own life was off the table – and she was glad that hers was off the table for now as well.

Ron grimaced.

"Parvati," Hermione suggested.

"Susan Bones?"

"Maybe not Susan. I mean she's nice enough but they'd kill each other. Or bore each other to death," she giggled quite openly now.

And now, at least, it was Ron's turn to look thunderous and blush at the same time. Quite a cute look on him.

"Hannah Abbott?"

"Ha! She's with Neville now," Ron interrupted. "And stop doing that."

"Oh, are you seeing someone already?" asked Harry. "I never knew."

"I don't and even if I were, it doesn't matter. I'm quite happy being single and I can honestly see himself being happy for the rest of my life, even if I'm a bachelor. No, I can see myself perfectly as a bachelor. So much simpler. You should see George around Luna these days. 'Yes, dear, this', 'Yes, love, that'. It's annoying. Eurgh," she mimicked vomiting.

"Snape doesn't do it, does he? This fawning stuff?" asked Harry.

"Of course he doesn't," Hermione blushed. "And weren't we doing Ron now? Besides, I need to get some washing done, or tell Kreacher to get some washing done and I'm awfully behind on my work for Uni, so if you two want to continue bickering or speculating about my relationship with Severus, feel free," she smirked and turned on her heel.

"Bossy witch," grumbled Harry loud enough for her to hear and she grinned, skipping up the stairs, happily smiling to herself.

.

It was better not to dwell on those things for too long and with great determination, he closed his eyes and apparated away. He knew Lucius. If that horsey-woman had broken up with him, or whatever it was that she had done, he would be mad at all the women in the world and all the Muggles. He was that kind of person and by the letter Severus had received, it had not been a nice break-up either. Woman seemed to have dumped him quite hard and quite idiotic, having him spied out. Ah well, of course that would happen if suddenly he introduced himself as a neighbour – when before there had always been a ruin. He would get to the bottom of it. And he would try to find out what the air was like, so to speak, about Draco and his upcoming nuptials to Aideen. Not that he cared, to be honest. Draco was making his own family and it was a better one than the one he had grown up in. Sometimes, he thought, it was healthier to cut an infected limb off than to keep it and let the entire body rot to death. And that was what Draco should do but he knew that Aideen believed in family and as such, he should at least test the waters for her.

He wasn't sure why he had offered to give Aideen advice and he honestly didn't think that she would call him up on it all too often. Maybe it was the loss of Eleanor he felt strongest when her granddaughter was around. Aideen, the vivacious girl, had grown up after the abduction and the death of Eleanor. She was so earnest most of the time and he hoped, truly, honestly, desperately hoped, that she could build a new family with Draco. Someone she could rely on, that was what he needed and not some older wreck who had too many bad experiences in life to give decent advice on the good ones.

With Hermione though...he didn't feel like either a wreck nor his age. True, his entire body hurt from the over-exertion that morning on the couch but...it was a good sort of pain and probably gave him just the upper hand he needed in his conversation with Lucius. To know that Hermione would call him or come back that night, to see her the next day and the next possibly. To revel in the fact that she was...they were...something. Girlfriend?

What an odd thing to say but it would definitely give him an edge over Lucius, even if the man never found out about him and Hermione.

He smirked to himself as he landed on his feet in front of the Manor, ostentatious thing that it was. He strode in, the wards, it seemed, in place again. He could feel them tingle but could pass without any kind of problems at all but then again, his magic was fully restored and he had passed them before. A million times before, it seemed.

An overly eager elf, the same one as before (Happy, Draco had said, hadn't he?) opened the door before he could even reach it, his ears twitching.

"Oh, Master Snape sir," the elf bowed and he wasn't even sure why the creature knew his name but he stepped in. "Is good you's here because Master Lucius...oh, oh," the elf wailed and banged his head, weirdly enough, against the floor, possibly elf-knees popping and jerking.

"And where might Master Lucius be?" he asked smoothly.

"Library, sir, Master Snape, sir," the elf answered between bangs of his head and he let the stupid thing do whatever it liked to the floor, but he couldn't stop rolling his eyes.

The door to the library stood wide open and he heard soft muttering. Stepping in, he could see a few books lying scattered around but nothing out of the ordinary. It was supremely odd. Odd that the elf would be so happy to see him, odd that it looked all so normal.

"Lucius?" he asked into the silence.

"Severus?" there was an answer from behind one of the bookshelves and a second later, a rather dishevelled looking Lucius came towards him. Dishevelled. His hair was tied together and there were agitated red spots on his cheeks. Not even when the Dark Lord had come back, not even when he had died, he had seen Lucius like this.

"My life has fallen to pieces," he stated clearly, despite his appearance.

"Excuse me?" asked Severus, not showing his confusion.

"Here," Lucius strode towards him, the step being trained perfectly.

A crumpled bit of parchment was pushed towards him and another, smaller slip of paper flew to the floor. He picked that one up first and his eyebrows arched towards his hairline when he scanned that one.

"Seriously?"

"Yes," Lucius took to pacing, "she married some Yankee. Just last week. I wanted her to come back and she married some bloody American. Name of Danvers. George Danvers. That's a name if ever I heard one. She couldn't have known him for a long time and we don't even know what kind of...I don't think he's a pureblood. I've been checking the books but we don't have anything on Americans. She went to marry an American."

He picked up the letter and held it away from him to read. He should check about getting glasses – but not now.

_Lucius_,

he read,

_I have remarried. I am sorry you have to find out through the paper but it could not be helped. I am sure you understand that I did not want an ex-husband to be at what was the happiest day of my life. _

Severus frowned. Stubbed. Hurt. He could understand the pacing and didn't bother to read the rest of the letter. Narcissa seemed to have lived up to her name and to her former reputation, and it seemed not to have seeped into Britain at that point. Or maybe it had. He didn't think he knew anyone who still read the Daily Prophet still.

"And what am I supposed to do now. Draco's with that Muggle trollop and..."

"Do not call Aideen a trollop," interrupted Severus viciously. "She's a decent young woman which, if you had met her, you would know. And just because your Viscountess..."

"Don't get me started on her," Lucius glared but it didn't quite work with his dishevelled looks.

Severus raised his hands in surrender.

"She had someone trailing after me. She thought I was after her money! Me! After her money!"

"Well, weren't you?" mumbled Severus.

"Of course I was but not as obvious as all that. And she had me checked out. Me. Imagine that. Me! And that person apparently seemed to talk to Draco as well. Me!"

"Lucius, I came here to talk about Draco, actually," he tried to change the topic. He wasn't any good at consoling and much less so at consoling fellow males. Aideen he could manage, Hermione, he wanted to manage but he was at a loss even when it came to his godson.

"I suppose he will want to marry that Mudblood?" Lucius shrugged and summoned a heavy chair with a high back and slumped into it. Slumped! Lucius Malfoy.

"He does. They are quite serious and I wouldn't be surprised if they set a date sooner rather than later."

The blonde wizard sighed. "I admit there might not be a lot of money left but is it better if I let it go to that merlinawful grandson of mad Andromeda, who is raised by Potter or to my cousin Marley in France who is living with a half-Veela who is taking all his money?" he asked sarcastically.

"Draco, Lucius. You know that. He's your son. You will not throw him over just because he marries the girl he loves. Love, Lucius. He is not marrying because he has to or because he needs money. He is marrying that girl because he loves her and he is right in loving her. She is decent and kind and generous. She is everything that has been lacking in your life and Draco craves it. If you are not there to bless their union I most certainly will but if you put any kind of troubles in their way, I swear to all the deities known to man that I will make life very difficult for you," he slipped his wand just an inch from his sleeve and the shiny rosewood reflected the light coming in from the window. "He is family, Lucius. He is the only family you have left and you better treasure it."

He nodded sharply and turned on his heel, exiting the library. Just as he stood in the door frame and turned around slowly. "And think about all the healthy grandchildren that will proudly bear the name of Malfoy."

.

Her mobile phone lay on her stomach, and she was, well, sort of, waiting for Severus to call. He said he would and she...trusted his word. She just trusted him to do what what he promised he would do. She tried to read but her mind was elsewhere. On that morning, that late morning, the breakfast they had shared and the embrace had enfolded her in just before she had left. It all spoke of some kind of trust between them. He was trusting her not to go back on her word (and of course she wouldn't – not that anyone had said anything at all – it was unspoken), and she was trusting him not to go back on his word, not to discard her like an old cardigan. They trusted on another – otherwise the thing on the couch (or things, really) would have never happened.

She smiled rather dreamily when there was a knock on the door. She sat up in bed.

"Come in," she called and held her mobile tight in her hand. She could feel it vibrating.

Harry slowly stepped into the room and she smiled and made room on her bed. "Sit," she said before he could speak.

"Are you waiting for a call?" he asked with a tired smile.

"Sort of," she smiled back. "What's going on?"

"Nothing much," he shrugged.

"Nothing much with you means that either your scar is hurting again, or you have had a vision from Voldy returning or...something is seriously wrong."

He chuckled mirthlessly.

"Well, do you want to tell me right out or do you want me to...somehow pry it out of you? I could ask Severus if he gives me Legilimency-lessons as well..."

"It's Noel and Ron and..."

"You don't have a thing for Ron, do you?"

Harry shook his head immediately but said nothing further. Silence descended on the room and it was annoying. He never managed to just say something. Never. It was truly...ack.

"Harry, come on. What is it?"

"Why is he so accepting?" asked Harry timidly.

"Why is he so accepting for me and Snape? And you for that matter. I thought you'd both throw a bloody fit and instead you're placing bets on me and him," she shrugged. "I suppose Ron knows that no matter what he will do, we have reached a stage in our friendship where it's either accept things or stop the friendship. We've all grown up a bit and I think he values your friendship and mine for that matter, more than anything. We've...we've had those few months where we didn't talk and it..."

"Made us miss him and him miss us?"

She nodded. "And it doesn't change you as a person whom you love. I still refuse to judge yet though. If Noel turns out to be an utter arse, I will not like him. And I will tell you so and I will treat him as such."

"I don't like Snape and I treat him decently."

"You like him, you just don't want to say so," she smirked. "No, I think Ron just wants you to be happy and I want you to be happy. And he wants me to be happy too and he knows that I have the best chances of doing so by being with another...weird, odd, geek bookworm. Who else is better suited than Severus when it comes to that?"

"Never has a truer word been spoken," Harry mumbled, then cleared his throat. "But still..."

"Still nothing. He accepted it. Don't worry about the rest."

"Would you meet him?" Harry asked, blushing.

"Sure," she nodded. "As I said, I'll await judgement until afterwards though."

"He's nice," Harry nodded. "If you like you can..."

"I can what?"

He shrugged again.

"I can what, Harry?"

"Bring Snape. If he doesn't say that we're wizards. I haven't told him yet."

"Severus? And an..." she laughed. "It might just be an idea worth considering but I'll have to ask him first."

"Speak of the devil," Harry grinned, pointing at her vibrating mobile.

She rolled her eyes, kissed his cheek and shooed him out of the room. "Hello Severus," she whispered gently into her mobile phone.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(Nod to atomicmom. She knows where I put said nod, I hope ;)**_

_**Well, I have some kind of holidays, which means working only half the time but still working. I hope you're not disappointed by the chapter. I suppose ff dot net wasn't quite up to what it should be (again!) because I haven't received all that many reviews for the last one...or maybe it was just a bad chapter? Did you enjoy this one? Let me know!)**_


	96. Honorifics

**_The usual disclaimers apply._**

.

_Person deixis clearly operates on a basic three-part division, exemplified by the pronouns for the first person ('I'), second person ('you'), and third person ('he', 'she', 'it'). In many languages, these deictic categories of speaker, addressee, and other(s) are elaborated with markers of relative social status (for example, addressee with higher status versus addressee with lower status). Expressions which indicated higher status are described as honorifics. _

(Yule, 1998)

.

He wasn't sure why he had agreed. Possibly because he did want to see Hermione, or possibly because he couldn't miss the chance to see Potter embarrassed. Possibly because he was curious. Possibly his old spy-nature was coming through again and he needed all the information on anyone he could get.

He had never dined under that kind of circumstances. Aideen had honestly called it a 'double-date'. Ridiculous. He wasn't dating Hermione, they were already...something and Potter and his new – boyfriend – maybe they were dating but he would definitely feel like chaperoning. Blasting rosebushes and stuff like that.

He had agreed. For Hermione, because of Hermione and he felt an utter fool for it. That woman seemed to be able to ask anything of him and he...seemed to obey all too readily. It was stupid and ridiculous and he was even going out for a meal with Hermione and Potter and Potter's – boyfriend – and quite possibly the hollow-legged Weasley and the toddler who changed his appearance at will. Though how they wanted to explain that to a Muggle who didn't know that they were all, more or less, wizards and witches, he didn't know. It wasn't his problem but he would most definitely enjoy the mayhem it was sure to cause. It would give him a good laugh (privately, of course) and Hermione would owe him one big favour.

He smirked quietly as he put on the dark jeans Draco seemed to think suited him. Not that he wanted to impress any boyfriend of Potter's but there was always the possibility that Hermione would want to come over to his for a cup of coffee. Or he to hers. He would have to see but he would definitely not say no. And it would allow him to postpone the much needed talk with his godson. He still hadn't told him that his mother had remarried. Not that it was his job per se – but who else would tell him? And who else could manage the temper that Draco was most likely to display.

It would give him time to meet bloody Potter. And he could make fun of the boy. For a long time.

He buttoned his shirt and taking a last glance at the mirror, he disapparated straight from his bedroom. There was nobody to say good bye to after all and he wanted to start his mocking of Potter as soon as possible. Oh he would sneer and he would smirk and he would – mock.

Grimmauld Place looked the same it always had from the outside. It was still old and a little run down (not as run down as his own home had looked but still) but there were lights in the windows and that hadn't ever happened when the Order had met there. It seemed almost like warmth was coming from inside. Odd, that. It had always seemed like such a cold place but not anymore.

Maybe Potter and Weasley and Hermione had really turned it into a home – he hadn't paid any attention to it when he had been there last, his thoughts had been on Hermione and his task and kissing her. But now that he looked, really looked, it seemed like a place to live. Not for him, too many bad memories there but he could see why Hermione felt at home there and why the Weasley boy had returned there and why Potter hadn't moved out to something smaller and easier to manage.

He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. It was flung open almost immediately (either they had really good wards or had grown careless – he would have to ask Hermione) and Hermione, his something, smiled broadly at him and it was her smile which first captured his attention before...well. The dress wasn't short by any means. A classic shift, if he wasn't mistaken. Black and pretty and modest. But he knew what lay underneath the dress now. He had seen her body close up and he couldn't help but stare. He tried to do it discreetly, naturally, but he did take a good look. Bare feet again, bare legs and it was actually too cold in November to wear bare legs.

"Come in," her smile had turned rather shy and her hand hung in mid-air, hovered there and he wasn't sure what she had wanted to do. Touch his hand, his chest, his face? Touch him at all? Close the door?

"Thank you," he said formally and stepped into the house. Her hand still hung there and it was obviously not there to close the door, that closed automatically. He shook his head internally. She shouldn't be this shy. Not after that morning. Not after the phone call. Not after he had promised to go with her. He took her hand in his and brought it up to her lips, kissing it softly.

She beamed. Literally beamed at him and it made his heart skip a little. But best not to let her and her smile and her bare legs and feet overwhelm him.

"You should put something on," he said snarkily. "It's November."

"I know it's November but I wasn't quite ready and I will put warming charms on the legs and have shoes over there," she pulled her hand away form his and looked at him quizzically. She wasn't mad now, was she? It had all gone so well and he was just suggesting not to go out barefoot. Seriously. He arched his eyebrows. "Harry will be ready in a moment," she added and her voice sounded odd. So she was angry or weird or strange. And hadn't quite understood what he had wanted. He had to make her understand that he didn't want her to catch a cold. Even as a witch, drizzly London weather was not the right time and place to walk around with no shoes on. And no stockings on. Besides, nobody but him should see her legs like this. Nobody. Not even a gay Potter. Especially not a gay Potter and a yet probably bisexual Potter's whatever.

He frowned. Did she not see that? She was supposed to be so smart.

"Good," he said instead and the air between them seemed dense and foggy and the entire atmosphere a little...awkward. He had expected that after their morning shag on the couch. Shags. Plural. Not now. Not two days after.

"He takes longer than me," she said, shrugging and summoned a little footstool from somewhere and sat down on it, summoning a pair of heavy boots and, as she sat down, she began to put a pair of socks, which seemed to come from nowhere and the boots on. Those weren't the right boots. She should wear heels with that dress and delicate stockings. Not heavy biker boots. His eyebrows almost vanished into his hairline. But at least, he consoled himself, nobody but him would know about her delicate arches and ankles and calves. Nobody could see the allure of her thighs in those shoes, nor her elegance when walking bare foot. Still. He was supposed to be her escort. It was reflecting badly on him too if she wore those shoes.

"What?" she asked, almost sounded annoyed.

"Nothing," he said intuitively, shacking his head. She was in an odd mood. Not daring to touch him at first, not understanding his jesting and the way he wanted her to just stay healthy. He wanted to sigh and take a deep, deep breath but she watched his every move. He didn't know what to do, was absolutely clueless. The dress was gorgeous and her smile had been gorgeous. Her frown wasn't. Her disapproving look wasn't.

Utterly clueless. Were women always this complicated?

Eleanor. Eleanor had been a woman and what had she said? 'Pay compliments, once in a while,' she had said when he had snarked at her which had happened seldom enough.

Compliments. Those would help, he supposed. Maybe it would make her smile again.

"The dress is very nice," he said, and managed not to stutter and even managed to almost smile at her.

"Thank you," she said and it still sounded a little snippy. Was that wrong again? Maybe he should just kiss her. Maybe she had expected that instead of the kiss on the hand? But he had thought...not while Potter was there. He might have seen them that day that he had been there, in the hallway but that had been different. That had been utterly different. Potter wasn't supposed to be walking in one them at any moment. And he had only said...she had beamed until he had told her to wear a bit more. That wasn't too bad, was it?

.

Well. She wasn't sure what to think of it. Did he think that she was stupid to go out without shoes? Of course not. And she had planned on high heeled shoes but with his comment – like her father. Worried father. Just because he was older didn't mean that...and she had thought that they had both reached a level of equality finally. Obviously not. Obviously he still thought that she was a dumb little girl who didn't know that it was bloody cold outside. She was angry and he ought to know it. First of all, he came in, looking dreadfully handsome and then nothing but a kiss on the hand and...that comment. Who would then expect her to wear beautiful shoes? No. She wore those Dr Martens now. And she would continue to wear them. She loved them. And she could walk in them. He was...she knew he was a bloke and that comment about her dress didn't help either. It was like he was forcing himself to say it.

And the worst thing was, she had planned on stockings. Black ones. He had just interrupted her and she wanted to see him and...then that comment. Not that she had minded him seeing her like this – he had seen her in even less but that? Too much and she was a little angry.

"Good evening," Harry came bouncing down the stairs, looking utterly excited and happy. Well, he was in for a surprise. Her good mood was completely blown away.

"Potter," Severus said courtly.

"Snape," replied Harry. "Ready? We're meeting...Hermione, you're not wearing those shoes, are you? Didn't you say you were going to wear the..."

"Them. Exactly those shoes," she interrupted before Harry could blurt how she had tested outfits and shoes and everything. But Snape had heard. Severus had heard and he made a rather astonished face. Surprised.

He nodded at Potter – having found, possibly, some kind of epiphany or maybe understanding or maybe just some male solidarity. She wasn't sure and she only rolled her eyes. "Let's just go," she said and opened the front door.

"I think you should really change the shoes," Harry said, looking at her legs.

"Do you want to be late?" she snapped and saw, just a glimpse, how Harry shot Severus another glance. So? Maybe she was a little...annoyed at Severus for acting like her father. Maybe she was a little mad that he had said something like this without making any comment about her dress _before_ and not after.

She arched her eyebrows and waited at the door for the two males to stop their solidarity and finally get a move on. Despite his unthoughtful comment...was it unthoughtful? No matter, she would think about this later, but despite his comment, she was still curious to meet that bloke of Harry's.

"We'll just walk, won't we? It's not far," Harry looked at her uncertainly and she knew that he wanted to know why her good mood and left her and why she had changed her dressing-plans. Naturally. He was just nosy like this.

Well. Those two walked and Severus even offered her his arm (where had he learned that?) but she wasn't sure how to handle this. She was angry but the shy smile he offered her, which almost looked apologetic soften her feelings again. Maybe, it hadn't been paternal and controlling – but...worried and...what? No, definitely unthoughtful. He hadn't thought. He hadn't considered her feelings. Only because she wanted to look nice for him, and only because he had caught her a bit too early. Maybe she should have just told him that. Let him stand in the corridor and run upstairs instead of waiting whether she could get a decent kiss hello or not. Obviously – not.

After a brief moment's consideration, she linked her arm through his but scowled at him and as Harry walked a bit in front of them (possibly very very excited and nervous), she could hiss at him. Could tell him...what?

She looked at him and he looked down at her, and still wore that shy smile. Was that...was he trying to get back into her good books or was he contrite or...what?

"You didn't have to sound so accusing," she hissed angrily.

"Excuse me?" he asked back, his voice low and confused.

"I was going to wear stockings but you were early. And I seem to remember that you liked my bare legs," she hissed again, glaring at him.

"I wasn't accusing you. It's November, not July. It's cold. And even those ridiculous boots won't help."

"They're not ridiculous," she spat. "They're classic!"

"Not to that dress. I am supposed to be your d-d-d- escort. And in those shoes as well..."

"Are you worried about appearances?" she frowned but her tone never lost its icy quality.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, if I'm ridiculous and my shoes are ridiculous, we're a match made in heaven, aren't we?" she pulled her arm from his. "What's your problem?"

"I don't want you to catch a cold without anything warming your legs," he spat and quickened his pace and she stood still. He stopped after a few steps and looked back at her. Worried. So he was worried. "And I like your legs bare," he hissed as quietly as he could without Harry (who was still sort of storming towards the restaurant or pub or wherever they were supposed to meet Noel) noticing.

"If you like my legs bare...oh," her eyebrows rose and rose. If he liked those legs, and he was with her, he should like to see her legs but if he didn't want anyone else to see them... she had figured that he'd be the possessive kind but like this? Honestly? It couldn't be. Just wasn't possible.

"Severus?" she asked. "You said that because..."

"I don't want you to catch cold," he said snarkily. "I said so."

She nodded. At least it wasn't super-controlling. And if he was truly worried about her – it was kind of cute. In a weird way. She walked towards him and smiled. "I'm sorry I got so huffy."

He nodded sharply but instead of apologizing back, he said nothing. Well. She knew he would be difficult. And she knew he wasn't suddenly morphing into her former Head-Severus. And wasn't sorry supposed to be the hardest word anyway?

She pushed her hand in his and held onto his hand and even though he looked a little uncomfortable, he would have to endure that and he did and slowly began walking after Harry.

"Why are you humming?" he asked suddenly after they had almost reached Harry.

She giggled. "Just a song I have in mind."

"What song?"

"Elton John. Nothing important," she smiled at him. "It doesn't matter." She took a deep breath. Maybe...ah. Her mother had said that sometimes men's ego's had to be...massaged from time to time. That they had to be told that they were right. She had done that often enough with Hermione's father and it was obviously still working. She smirked to herself.

"Erm...could you, maybe...well..."

"What?" he asked immediately, looking down at her.

"Could you cast a warming charm on my legs?" she asked, blinking prettily (or what she hoped was prettily).

He rolled his eyes but she could see the wand coming from his sleeve and he pointed his sleeve at her legs and even though her warming charms were holding and nice and toasty, he added another layer and the tips of his ears were a little pink and his eyes shone. That should, Hermione thought, do the trick. Even if he hadn't said sorry. She would teach him that eventually.

.

He was completely overtaxed. He had no idea why she was humming and suddenly smiling again and what he had said that had changed her mind. Or had soothed her. He was completely out of his depths. He didn't know about relationships and women and he wanted...he needed Eleanor. Her advice and her help. She would know what had made Hermione change her mind and she would have helped. She would have laughed, yes, but laughed and helped.

Instead, he stood there, in front of an Italian restaurant, with Hermione holding his hand and Potter talking quietly to a young man. A boring young man. Decent haircut, blondish, average height and blue eyes. Not someone who would have grabbed his attention had he been his student and had just sat there. Nothing special. But then again, he wasn't gay and he didn't have to see any appeal apart from Hermione's bare legs, protected by his warming charms. And she would sit and he would fetch food and drinks. Nobody but him seeing her legs in those ridiculous boots.

"Hermione, erm, Snape, may I, erm, this is Noel. Noel, this is Hermione, one of my oldest and best friends and her...her Snape," Potter blushed but it hadn't escaped Severus's attention that he was clutching the boy's hand. Well.

"Her Snape?" the boy grinned well, boyishly and reached out with his free – right – hand, extended it and Severus, more out of intuition than anything else, grasped it and shook it before he watched Hermione shake his hand. "That's a nice way of putting it. Am I now your Miner?" he smirked at Potter and Potter smirked back. Smirked bloody back.

"As long as you're not a minor," he grinned and Severus could see the hands clasping the other tightly.

Severus looked at Hermione and she rolled her eyes at exactly the same moment that he did. He was almost tempted to smile then but it wouldn't be right to smile now. He still had some mocking to do. Trouble was, that Potter's bloke wasn't really mocking material. He had expected more of a...poof. Not a normal man. He had always prided himself on the fact that he could see it in every student but if that person had been a student of his, he wouldn't have noticed. As he wouldn't have noticed it with Potter. He was definitely out of practice. He would have to see what he could figure out with the other students at university.

"Shall we go in?" asked the boy innocently and it was annoying how nice he seemed to be. Lucky for Severus that he didn't particularly like nice people.

.

"So how did you meet? At school?" Noel asked as they had ordered their food, Severus sitting next to her and Noel opposite her. He was nice. Truly, honestly nice.

"Yes, at school. I told you about the boarding school?" replied Harry, grinning almost foolishly.

"Oh yes. I didn't know it was co-ed," Noel almost cooed.

"It was," replied Harry and Severus's hand next to hers twitched. He was bored. He thought this was a waste of time and truth be told, so did she. Yes, Noel was interesting but so far, the conversation hadn't gone any father than 'what school did you go to' and so on. It would have been more interesting to just spend the evening with Severus and clear the air further. She still hadn't got a kiss anyway. Their first misunderstanding as...something and he hadn't given her a kiss and she hadn't given him one. Stupid.

He wanted to get her alone. Or at least she hoped he wanted to be alone with her. What an idiotic idea to go on a double-date. Yes, she had wanted to meet Noel but now he had and she wondered if it wouldn't have been better if Ron had met him. Or if she had seen him when it got really serious. Other than that...boring. And Severus's hand lay so invitingly on her thigh.

She pushed hers slowly into his and smiled at him, ignoring those two opposite her. He entwined his fingers almost immediately with hers. He didn't look at her but seemed to be very interested in what those two lovebirds were talking about instead.

"Why were you humming Elton John?" he asked softly without looking at her.

"Just a song I had in my head," she answered just as softly.

"What song?" stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

"Erm, I don't know what it's called," she lied. "I could hum it for you again," she smirked.

"No," he shook his head and still didn't look at her.

"I'm sure I have a CD or something at home with that on. And if I don't, maybe Harry will. After we're done here, we could...you could stay and listen to it."

"Miss Granger, you are rather obvious. But if you think I'm staying with you when he's there and the Weasley, you're mistaken. But I'm sure you could bring the CD and...we can run it on my laptop," he smirked, finally turning his head and smirking at her. No, no smirk. It was a smile. A nice smile. Sweet, if she was honest.

"And you're not?" she smiled back and was sorely tempted to just lean in and let herself be kissed. Snogged senseless. Snogged breathless. Taste him, feel him.

"Not as obvious as you," he arched an eyebrow.

"Slytherin," she accused mockingly.

"Guilty," he replied with that gorgeous smile.

"So it's alright now that I don't wear stockings?" she asked, testing the waters after their painful misunderstanding earlier.

His fingers pulled away and his hand pulled away and she knew she had said the wrong thing. Again. She sighed to herself and was tempted to just slouch and apparate away and...but she couldn't and a moment later, she felt his fingers on her bare thigh. Just her mid-thigh, nothing indecent but she could feel his fingers, stroking, touching. She smiled a little.

"Yes," he said a moment later, still caressing her thigh. "It is alright that you don't wear stockings. But those boots will have to go. At least with dresses."

She nodded relieved.

"Oi, what are you two whispering about?" Harry all but yelled over the table.

"Nothing, Potter," Severus replied immediately.

"Oh, by the way Snape, I mean, Mr Snape and Hermione, is it alright if I say Hermione?" Noel said and he was openly holding Harry's hand on the table. "Where did you two meet?"

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**If I don't manage to get a chapter done before Christmas: Happy Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy Whatever you're celebrating (and if you're not celebrating anything, Happy Not-Celebrating!)!**_


	97. Consonant Clusters

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_The sequence of English speech sounds in a word is not arbitrary. In fact, there are strict conditions on the order and type of speech sounds that can appear. At the beginning of a word all consonants expect /ng/ can appear. If two consonants occur at the beginning, however, the possibilities are quite limited. Consider the sequences below:_

_*bt, nk, *ng, *pb, *pt, *pk_

_None of these combinations can begin an English word, even though they can all be found word-internally (e.g. napkin). By contrast, all the combinations below are permissible word-initial sequences in English:_

_br, dr, gr, bl, pr, tr, kr, pl, kl_

_Native speakers of English can instantly tell if a combinations of sounds is possible, suggesting that the speakers have internalised a set of principles that determine well-formedness. _

(Akmajian, 2001)

.

He saw absolutely no need to lie. Everyone could see that Hermione was...young. Very young. Everyone could see that they had not attended the same classes at school and everyone could see that he could be, yes, her father. He knew he should mind more and he knew that he should care more. He knew that he should think more about it but his teaching career at Hogwarts, the time as a Potions, then Defence against the Dark Arts Master had been another lifetime, despite the wand up his sleeve. He did not feel like the dirty old man others might see him as and as such, he saw no need to lie.

"I was her, and Potter's, teacher," he replied coldly, a steely glint in his eyes.

"Her teacher?" the boy's eyes seem to light up and she almost seemed to flinch. Almost, not quite. Instead, as he looked at her for a brief second, she smirked. "You must have been young when you began teaching."

"Yes," he replied with a nod.

"My my. What did you teach?" the boy asked and he could see Potter – too obvious as always – waving his hand and wriggling his eyebrows. What did he take him for? An utter idiot? Completely stupid?

"I tried to teach them, you should say," he replied smoothly. "But since most young people do not seem too keen on learning," he shrugged and it sounded quite arrogant, even to his own ears. He wasn't sure what to describe Potions – or Defence against the Dark Arts for that matter – as. Chemistry? Cooking? Some martial art? Physical Education? It had been all that and more. Much more. Except maybe cooking for both he and Hermione weren't the greatest of cooks but they could both brew a decent potion.

"I can't say I was any different," the boy said. "I'm still not."

"Oh? What do you do?" Hermione asked smiling.

"I'm working for my dad," he shrugged. "He has this small independent magazine and I basically put together the horoscope," the boy laughed. "And make coffee and run copies and some day, I might even be allowed to write an article but my father thinks I'm not ready for that yet."

"What magazine?" asked Hermione, curious.

Harry smirked proudly, happily at Snape and he seemed to be almost tempted to give him a thumbs up. Really – that boy wasn't very cunning. He wasn't smart. He wasn't...oh well. What had he expected from a Potter? He could easily distract the other boy if needed and it had worked. Unobtrusively.

"It's a horse-and-hound kind of thing. Rather boring if you ask me but I hope I'll get my foot in and work some other place. A newspaper would be terribly exciting. Or maybe television? Media. News coverage. People need to be informed, don't you think? Remember the year before last when we had this terrible fog everywhere for weeks and weeks? The news couldn't explain and didn't even try to. They just stated that there was fog – nothing else. That can't be enough. Or at around the same time, the family next to ours vanished. Just vanished. House was empty from one day to the next. Nobody ever found out where they went and it wasn't like the Taylors at all. They always watched our dog when we were on holiday. But they just went. Nobody ever found them. And nobody informed anyone. It should be news-worthy. Stories like that should be told."

Potter was obvious. Too, too obvious. He seemed to pale. And he seemed to shiver and he had pulled his hand away from Miner's the moment the fog had been mentioned. Hermione was doing much better. She just held still and held his hand underneath the table, grasped it, held it tightly. Nothing more.

"Really?" she asked a moment later. "And they were never found?"

Miner shook his head. "Of course the police were looking for them but you know how the police work sometimes. I mean if someone vanishes, the entire family, the just assume that they've either been killed – and since there were absolutely no traces of bodies or robbery or something they didn't think that was the case – or that they just ran from something," he grimaced. "Besides, there is a lot of money in it."

Severus nodded to him. All of that was true, even though he couldn't explain to the poor boy what had happened to the Taylors and that they weren't just any neigbours. He could have explained the fog but how? And it wasn't his job – it was Potter's. Potter would have to, otherwise he ended up in a relationship like Lucius with that horse. Maybe he would tell Potter that – if Hermione hadn't already.

"He could tell us all sorts of things and everyone would be informed about everything. That's a good thing, isn't it?" Potter said, full of admiration. Potter would love that. He, as well as others, who had always been so kept in the dark about most things craved information. He would appreciate it. He would appreciate a fair press and informative news. That, Severus could relate to.

.

Noel wasn't the bad sort. Not at all. He seemed like he was hard-working, interested, very much informed about things and, even though he didn't know yet, sort of knew about wizards and witches already. The fog. She remembered the breeding Dementors with dread.

He chattered on and on about it though and she could not deny the kind of admiration with which Harry looked at his – boyfriend. She supposed he was his boyfriend and other than her and Severus, they had no trouble finding titles for one another. Ah well, maybe it was a bit different with people roughly the same age.

He hadn't even denied that he had once been her teacher and while she couldn't with good conscience say that he was a completely different person to back then, he did seem slightly altered. He wasn't this caustic anymore and he was altogether gentler. Or maybe he had always been that way and she had just not seen it. It didn't matter. The person sitting next to her was an almost perfect blend between Snape and Head-Severus. Almost. If – and only if – they could work on their communication. It was ridiculous, the things she misunderstood, or the things he said wrong, or she didn't know which way.

Harry and Noel had an easier way about them it seemed. Oh well, they would learn it as well. And they had gone through the most difficult time together already. It couldn't get much harder than Mrs Callaghan's death and the aftermath. Simply couldn't.

She had to let go off his hand, naturally, when her food arrived (and they weren't as soppy as Harry and Noel who tried to hide their hand-holding but Harry had difficulty eating with his left hand) but she grasped, and squeezed it immediately after they were done.

"Can we go and listen to that CD quite soon?" she asked over the romantic cooing between Harry and his boyfriend.

Severus only smirked and nodded and seemed almost too keen to get the waiter back at their table.

.

Harry wasn't sure why Hermione and Snape vanished so quickly after the main course but it was alright for him. He knew most of the things that Noel had said while they had been present already and he was anxious to dig a bit deeper. Just a tad. Learn more about his family, his friends, the life. Former boyfriends. That kind of thing. Or maybe not former boyfriends. But he wanted to talk about things that he couldn't talk about with Snape and Hermione there.

Besides, even though Noel knew about Teddy, he didn't know that Teddy was a Metamorphmagus and he should know that before meeting his godson. And before knowing that, he would have to know that Harry was a wizard. But he wouldn't tell him that until he was quite certain and he couldn't be quite certain until Noel hadn't met Teddy. Bloody catch-22.

"Harry?" he asked softly and smiled at him. "Something in your mind?"

Harry shook his head with a smile of his own.

"This Snape, he seems like a nice bloke, even if he is a bit rude. I don't mind. And he was really your teacher?"

Harry nodded. "He was," he cleared his throat. "Erm, but I don't think he answered you the question what he taught."

"No, he didn't," Noel laughed. "I thought he didn't like talking about himself and his past."

"He wouldn't but...the reason that he didn't tell you..." he paused and scratched his eyebrows, his chin and took a sip of the almost empty glass of wine that was still on the table.

"What, Harry?" he asked softly and gently.

"We...that is to say, I, didn't go to a normal school. I mean it was a normal school and not...I wasn't going to St Brutus's..."

"What's St Brutus's?"

Harry sighed. "It's not important. And I shouldn't be telling you this here but...well, you'll think I'm insan anyway and probably ready to go to the looney bin but it's all true and Hermione could've confirmed it. Snape could've confirmed it."

"Harry?"

"I'm a wizard, Noel. I went to a school for wizards and witches. I'm not insane. Really. It's the truth."

"Wizard?" Noel whispered breathlessly. "Are you having me on?"

Harry shook his head adamantly. "I know it's unbelievable. I didn't believe it at first. I really didn't. When they told me I was a wizard, I thought they were having me on as well. But it's true. I would show you some magic but we're not allowed in public. It's just that...I want you to meet my godson and he can't control his magic the way..." he paused. "You don't believe me."

The other boy took a deep breath. "It's a bit much to take in, to be honest. And I'm not sure I believe you. I'm sorry, Harry."

"But..."

"I thought I had met a normal man. Someone who was just...like me and wanted the same things I did. But..."

"I want the same things you do," Harry interrupted quickly. "I'm not any different. Not really. It's not like I'm a vampire or a werewolf...even though. Ah well, no, I'm just a normal...man. I'm not any different."

"I need to see this magic," Noel arched his eyebrows with a convinced gleam in his eyes.

.

It was a matter of minutes before they were back in his garden, both of them apparating separately, Elton John CD in Hermione's hand and it was only a matter of seconds before he noticed Draco sitting, in a jumper and jeans only, on the small wall. His legs not quite dangling and Aideen standing nervously, in a heavy coat, behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist.

"Draco?" Severus asked, and felt foolish for ignoring Hermione but it couldn't be helped. He had a responsibility towards his godson as well. A big one, especially now.

"Uncle Severus," the boy sounded almost helpless. "Did you know?"

"Did I know what?" he asked, realisation dawning on him. He had found out about his mother. Had found out. If Lucius had found it in his heart to...non-existent heart that it was...to write to his son, he would surely tell him about the nuptials of...his mother. And Severus had failed to tell him. If he had found out now, via a letter, it was because Severus had not yet dared, or managed, to tell him.

Hermione looked at him and touched his back with a kind hand. He twisted his head around to look at her and she nodded towards the house. He shook his head. "Stay," he said softly.

"Did you know that Mother got married again?" asked Draco.

"Yes," he replied, knowing that lying was the worst way.

"And when did you plan to tell me?" the young man was angry and maybe rightly so.

"Tomorrow in the morning, to be honest," he said frankly. "But I see you've found out already."

"My father sent me this. Did you go to see him? Do you know about that too?"

"Severus, do you want me to...?" Hermione asked again, her hand on his back still, her fingers drawing small circles. It wasn't meant to be soothing and he knew it. It was meant to be...just the reassurance that she would do whatever he asked of her and that meant rather a lot. It did. It did. He didn't want complete and utter obedience but he wanted the woman he was with to know when she needed to listen to him. Granted, he would still have to think of a scenario where he had to think when he had to listen to her but maybe that day would arrive yet and he would, no doubt, listen to her. If the situation warranted it – which it probably would never.

"Stay," he replied just as softly but a little more impatiently than before.

"Here," his godson shoved a bit of parchment in his hands. "Read."

"Why do I always have to read letters that are not for me," he muttered to himself, but read nevertheless. It was a lot of mindless dribble in his eyes, a lot of...family and honour and name and hope for good, healthy, wizarding children. And, almost as a postscript, the news that his mother had seemed to have emigrated to America and had re-married. Inconsiderate bastard.

As an actual postscript, there were tiny words, barely legible.

PS (he deciphered): I would like to come and visit you as soon as possibly to meet your future wife. If I don't hear anything contrary, I will present myself at your godfather's house next Sunday at noon.

Nothing else. Typically Lucius. Always making sure people knew but only if they could read his 'hasty' handwriting. He could and he had learned to read it a long time ago.

"Will you?" he asked, Hermione reading over his shoulder and he could almost feel her bubbling over with questions. Well, he had not told her yet of the newest development within the Malfoy family.

Draco shrugged. "Might as well but I'm telling you, I will make sure Aideen cannot get hurt by Lucius. And if I have to put her behind protective wards or heap protection-spells over her. I don't care. He won't get to her."

"Probably wise but I don't think he will hurt her."

"I could help," Hermione offered and Severus had to roll his eyes. Woman just didn't know when to shut up. "I could come over and just...it's a wand more."

"We'll see about that, Granger," hissed Draco but he Aideen's voice was louder than his and more insistent.

"I'd like that," she said at the same time that Draco spoke. "Not because I think I'll need protection but I don't think I want to be the only woman in the house."

"You will accept that protection," said Severus angrily. "And Hermione..."

"I will come over," she only said with a disarming sort of smile. "You know I can protect me and others. I didn't think I'd have to prove it anymore."

"You don't have to prove it," he hissed.

"Erm, so it's okay for you and you knew about mother. Interesting," Draco interrupted. "I suppose I'll come back over in the morning and...you can fill in the gaps that my father left. And I'll know to sleep with earplugs," he grimaced and nodded at Hermione and him. "Good night, you two. And Uncle Severus, thank you for not telling me," he added sarcastically, swung himself over the wall and vanished into the house .

"He didn't mean it," Aideen said softly as Draco had disappeared. "He was just shocked at his mother marrying again. Don't take it seriously. And I think he's a bit afraid of his father coming and..."

Severus grimaced. He didn't want to hear this. Instead, he felt a slight push against his back and was he twisted his head once more, Hermione was nudging her head towards the other house. Maybe, he thought, this was one instance where he had to listen to her. Even though he didn't really want to. But, the rationality inside of him told him, that this was the right way and he ignored Aideen who kept on chattering and chattering and instead, stepped away from the warm hand on his back and followed his godson over the wall and into the house.

"Draco!" he almost shouted in what was his most authoritative voice. "Draco. You come back here this instance!"

Nobody appeared. Of course he wouldn't. He wasn't a petulant child anymore. These days, he was a pouting, petulant adult. Almost adult. Severus sighed and made his way carefully through the house. It was unchanged. Still full of Eleanor and if he was honest with himself, he knew that he couldn't have lived in that house. Too much to remind him. Too much.

He found the boy sitting stiffly on his bed up in his room. Even that was unchanged.

"Draco," he said in his former-teacher-voice but the boy (and he was a boy still it seemed) didn't even flinch. He didn't look up either and so, with a long-suffering, melodramatic sigh, he sat down on the bed next to his godson.

"I'm missing out on some..."

"Some, yeah, you're missing out on some. Cast some bloody Silencing Charms," the boy spat.

"We will," he replied. "I was planning to tell you."

"You're planning on shagging Granger, that's all you were doing," he spat still, malice lacing his voice.

"I'm very close to hitting you now, Draco", threatened Severus.

"Why don't you?" the boy shouted.

"Because it won't help," he said with schooled calm. "I talked to your father indeed. I don't know what he is planning to do but he wasn't happy with the news of your mother's...new marriage and your plans to marry Aideen."

"If he lays one finger on her..."

"He will pay," Severus interrupted wisely. "And don't think you'll be the only one who will make him pay. I will also. But I honestly doubt he will."

"He hurt Mrs Callaghan," he cried out.

"I remember, Draco. But you and I both know that he was Imperiused..."

"He will would've done it."

"I don't doubt it," he was close to touching the boy's hands which were twitching on his thighs but he couldn't. He was demonstrative and only because he allowed Hermione to touch him and because he allowed himself to touch Hermione, didn't mean that anyone else should. "But he won't dare to hurt Aideen with me, and apparently, Hermione present. There is too much at stake for him."

"There's nothing at stake for him. Don't you see, Uncle Severus? He doesn't care anymore. I'm not his son anymore but some random relation and he even thinks he can pull the trick with the minute PS. I've seen him do it a thousand times."

"He underestimates you, godson. He always has. But I think I have an idea how you can effectively protect Aideen from any future harm and how you can pull your father back on your side," he said in a low voice.

"What? How?"

"Marry her," Severus smirked.

"I plan to and if you had paid attention to anything other but Granger..."

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," chided Severus. "And I do seem to remember well enough that you two got engaged. But this is not what I mean. What is that your father craves most in the world?"

"Money? Power? Insanity?"

He had to chuckle drily. "I agree with all three but he would only, under torture only, of course, agree to the first two. And who is in charge of the wizarding world? Remember, he still craves power only in the wizarding world. And only wizarding money."

"Gryffindors?" said Draco contemptuously.

"Yes. And half-bloods and Muggle-borns. It seems to be the political climate of the hour. Now you have an advantage."

"What? I'm not following," Draco looked at him and he was painfully reminded of a lost, little boy at Hogwarts. Surrounded only by Crabbe and Goyle who he was being told that they were not good enough to be decent friends but only...thugs.

"You do know a Gryffindor with a lot of connections to other Gryffindors and even the elite, if you will. Mind you, I am using elite in inverted commas. I still haven't decided yet whether they are or not and truthfully speaking, I do not want anything to do with them."

"Me neither. So what does it..."

"Stop interrupting me," he scolded.

"I'm not."

"You are. Now stop and listen. Marry Aideen and don't elope, don't make this a small wedding. Make sure you invite enough of Aideen's relatives – and she has enough – to make this a decent Muggle wedding and I will talk to Hermione and you will talk to Hermione. And you will talk to Potter and his flat-mate and you will send out invitations to Minerva McGonagall, to your other former teachers, to everyone in the wizarding world you know and who's been at least classified a blood traitor by...you know. My being there will ensure that they will come and they will all know how to dress like Muggles. By that, your father will..."

"See that my standing his bigger than his even though I'm marrying a Muggle."

"What did I say about interrupting? But yes, that is the general idea. He will try everything to get back into your good books again and then it is up to you to decide what you do. Tell him you can't meet on Sunday and make sure you have a date set as soon as possible. Yesterday, if possible. Send out those invitations and give him a chance to only see you there," he said with a smirk. He did enjoy a good plotting any day, it seemed.

.

"Are you okay?" Aideen asked, fishing a spare key, it seemed out of her pocket and opening Severus's back door.

"Yes, why?"

"Well, I don't know, just asking. I mean, you were out on a date, right?"

"We met Harry and Harry's new boyfriend, yes, why?" she asked, squinting.

"And you went in that?"

"If you go on about those shoes, I swear I'll kill you," Hermione hissed angrily. "I've heard enough of it. And if you complain about my lack of stockings or tights, I wear warming charms."

"But you haven't been together for long, I mean...I'm just saying."

"He was complaining about it, Harry was complaining about it, stop it. It's my problem what kind of shoes I wear, alright?"

"Hermione, I don't..." Aideen sighed and flopped down a kitchen chair. "I'm not saying anything okay?"

"He didn't like it either but...he was sort of paradox about it."

"Severus?" she nodded wisely. "He would be. Look, I don't know...Gran told me stuff about him which I'm not supposed to know and I know him and...he's grown to be more like my brother than my own brother. My own brother is an idiot by the way which isn't saying much. But...don't you want to be pretty around him?"

"What do you know about him?" Hermione asked curiously.

Aideen shrugged. "What he does, he does with completely. There are no half things for him. It's either completely – or nothing at all. That all or nothing thing. He had this thing with a lecturer, Gran said but she wasn't even sure if it was a thing or not but I suppose that didn't come out for anything but...Gran said, when he arrived here, he painted his house at night. He got the whole house in top shape within a few days. And it was a hovel, I'm told. I wouldn't know, I'm only relying on me gran's opinion. But seriously, if he's in a relationship with you..."

"We haven't established that it's a relationship yet," she shrugged.

"If he brings you here, it's a relationship. He didn't do it with that professor anyway. As I said, if he's in a relationship with you, he will possibly want you...completely. No sharing. He is that way. If he talked to Gran, I got the glare when I interrupted. The only exception was right after I was...you know, you were there. If he talked to me or Gran, or if he talks to me, most of the time, he is focused on me. He doesn't do things half-heartedly and I don't think...oh, what am I saying? I'm not someone to give advice but I think I can understand the paradox you were talking about..."

"He wanted me to wear stockings and heels but then it felt like he didn't want anyone to see my legs at all."

"You do have pretty legs," she said, then grinned, "she said, jealously. Seriously, Hermione. Of course he wants to see the legs but he doesn't want anyone else to notice that you've got pretty legs. It's a male thing, I'm told. Well, I know, over there. First it's 'will you marry me', then Gran dies, then it's not quite marriage, then it's jealousy because you and Severus...do it, and now it's wedding as soon as possible. I don't know whether I'm coming or going and I don't suppose you feel any different. But girlie, one thing. This one is worth keeping. Severus was there for me when nobody else could give me any kind of security. And if he acts a bit possessively, just let him know that you're his."

"I try," Hermione replied, defeatedly. Just what she had thought as well.

"Do more than just try," Aideen shrugged. "He is worth it, I tell you. I love Draco and I wouldn't want to change him for anyone but if you have Severus, you won't have to worry about anything for the rest of your life. He is the most reliable person – after me Gran – that I know. And that is worth so much," she cocked her head to the side. "Besides, if he went out with you in those boots, he really must like you."

She grinned then walked around the table to Hermione and gave her a hesitant hug. "If you want to talk about this – I know you don't have any girlfriends really – just come over. I have the advantage of knowing both Severus and you."

.

_**Thank you!**_


	98. Informative Signals

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_A person listening to you may become informed about you via a number of signals which you have not intentionally sent. She may not that you have a cold (you sneezed), that you aren't at ease (you shifted around in your seat), that you are untidy (unbrushed hair, rumbled clothing), hat you are disorganised (non-matching socks), and that you are from some other part of the country (you have a strange accent). However, when you use language to tell this person, "I would like to apply for the vacant position of senior brain surgeon at the hospital," you are normally considered to be intentionally communicating something. _

(Yule, 1985)

_._

_**Aideen Mary Callaghan and Draco Abraxas Malfoy **_

_**invite you to join them at the celebration of their marriage**_

_**on Saturday, the fifteenth of December two thousand and one at four o'clock in the afternoon at St Mary Magdalene's Church in Eccles. **_

_**Reception to follow at The Waterside. **_

_**The favour of a reply is expected before the tenth of December. **_

_**Muggle Clothing required.**_

.

It had been a long time since Minerva McGonagall had to sit down upon receiving some post. This was one instance where she felt the need for some Firewhiskey and a sit down. Her deductive skills, however, were as sharp as ever and since she had never heard of an Aideen Mary Callaghan and since Mugle Clothing required had been added to the invitation – written by hand – just above their signatures, she supposed that this was a Muggle wedding and Aideen Mary Callaghan a Muggle. Imagine that – and the cause for another strong urge for Firewhiskey. Draco Malfoy marrying a Muggle. She had to think whether she wanted to go but the chance seemed immense to see at least Snape and that, she wanted to do.

.

Molly Weasley had been charming some needles to knit a new jumper for little Teddy when the owl arrived and afterwards, the needles had done anything but knit a new baby-jumper. The needles jumped around and across the fireplace and seemed to shriek when Molly yelled.

"Arthur!"

Her husband appeared almost immediately, thinking that there was an emergence, possibly because his wife's voice only ever reached that sort of pitch if she was angry or scared but there was nothing but a wedding invitation.

"Jolly good," Arthur said, "Ron says this girl is a friend of Severus's and a neighbour of his. Or her grandmother is, I'm not sure but if we go, we don't only give young Malfoy another foot up but we also get to see Severus."

"I need a dress," Molly said immediately. "And see if Ron and Harry have received an invitation as well."

.

"You certainly won't go there. At least not without me," Augusta Longbottom said viciously.

"I want to. Draco isn't that bad, Harry said and he's marrying a Muggle, he said as well. He certainly changed a lot."

"I'll have to talk to Minerva before. And you won't go without me. If you go, I'll go with you."

"Alright, Gran. The invitation's for both of us in any case and I think I'll ask Hannah if she likes to come," he smiled dreamily and got up to talk on the floo.

.

"Yes, Dad," Ron said, kneeling in front of the fireplace, "we got an invitation and we will go. Hermione is researching ways of making sure that Ted stays in one, erm, way, and so far she's only come up with a sort of cap, but of course we're going. Harry says Aideen's really nice and she's a friend of Hermione's. You should come to."

"We will come but Ron, your mother is wondering, and I'm wondering of course, will Severus Snape will be there?"

Ron blushed. "Erm, I suppose so. He's Malfoy's godfather and I can't honestly see him letting Hermione go alone. She hasn't said much but Harry did and..."

"Why Hermione and Severus? Why should they?"

"Oh bugger," Ron muttered. "Listen Dad, I've got to go. But we're going definitely and if you want to know what they want for a present, erm, I think they're saving for a new kitchen. Hermione said."

.

"George, we will go, right?" Luna asked, folding the invitation into a lovely paper-dragon.

"Do you think I'd miss Malfoy getting married to some Muggle?"

"Oh, she really is a Muggle? Did Harry tell you?" she smiled beatifically.

"He did. And he invited us for dinner before the wedding whenever we have time."

"That'll be nice. I hope Hermione's there with Professor Snape. I'm really curious to see him now and before the wedding. I'm sure many people will only go because of him, and not because of Draco and, erm, Aideen," she unfolded the paper-dragon and looked at him. "It's a pretty name, don't you think?"

"Not as pretty as Luna," George almost cooed and enfolded her in his arms. "Do you think we should..."

"Get married?" asked Luna, gazing up at him happily. "I don't see why not, actually. It would be fun to be Luna Weasly. It sounds rather good, doesn't it?"

George smiled and grinned and laughed all at the same time that he managed to kiss Luna full on the mouth.

.

"What do you mean, Poppy, you got an invitation yourself?" Minerva asked, sitting, once more, heavily down upon one of the beds in the hospital wing.

"I did. I was wondering myself but then again, young Malfoy and me always got along fine when he wasn't putting on faces for other people. And besides, if Severus Snape is really Draco Malfoy's godson, he will be there. And it will be a chance of seeing him without actively knocking on his door which I should have done two years ago but which I didn't because...I don't know why. I'm going to this wedding. I can't image Draco having many people on his side and I'll be one of them."

Minerva nodded. "I actually rather agree with you, dear," she replied pensively. "I suppose we can go together then?"

"Absolutely."

.

"You are what?" shrieked Molly Weasley.

"I'm taking my boyfriend. His name is Noel. I broke the Statue of Secrecy for him and while he won't say a word, at least I hope not, I'd hate to obliviate him because the relationship is not going where I want it to go."

"You have a boyfriend? Ron, why didn't you tell us?"

Ron shrugged. "Didn't seem important and Ginny..."

"Ginny is seeing this nice young man...what's his name? Arthur, what's his name?"

"Seamus Finnigan, I believe," Arthur nodded. "So you found yourself a partner, Harry?"

"I did, Arthur," Harry smiled sweetly. "He needed a few days to grasp the entire concept of witches and wizards living amongst Muggles but I think he's alright with it now. I think Hermione helped or threatened him, I'm not sure which," his smile morphed into a grin.

"So you have a boyfriend and you'll go with him?" asked Molly.

He nodded. "Noel has met Hermione and Snape and I figure that if he knows those two, he won't have any difficulty getting to know Aideen and if she knows Aideen, she'll know Draco. And really, Aideen has changed Draco..."

"I don't think it was only Draco," argued Ron. "Didn't you say that he came here..."

"That was after Aideen, I think. When she was abducted by...oh, of course you know Aideen, Arthur. She was the one who was taken by Andromeda Black."

"The cute little Muggle girl? That was her? I thought...I remember. Wasn't she supposed to be speaking in front of the Wizengamot?" Arthur nodded.

"The girl you told me about?" asked Molly.

Arthur nodded again towards his wife but Harry shrugged. "She was but I haven't heard if she had to."

"This government will be our ruin," Molly muttered angrily. "She was the one who was tortured by Andromeda and she never got a chance to talk about it? Poor girl. Do you know if she talked to someone about it? It can't be easy to live with a relative of someone who's tortured you..."

Ron and Harry both rolled their eyes. It was just like Molly and if they didn't interfere, she would most likely try to get Aideen under her wing. Arthur seemed to think the same thing and reacted quicker than the two young men.

"We should try and do something about that rule of Shacklebolt's. He's overdoing it and have you heard that he brought Umbridge back? Dolores Umbridge."

"What?" Harry all but shrieked. "The toad?"

"That is her official nickname these days. She's only in charge of some paper-pushing for him but he brought her back and..."

"I swear, I'll get a job in the Muggle world as well if they continue this way," Ron said darkly.

.

"I should be on there. Or her parents. Not both of them inviting people. There should be parents on there otherwise it looks like it's some illicit thing. And they still haven't met with me. I don't see how I can meet with them before the wedding and I have to go. If they write 'Muggle clothing required', they will have invited other Wizards and since Snape is with that Mu...ggleborn these days, she will be there and if she's there, Potter won't be far and if he's there, all the blood traitors won't be far. The entire stupid Order won't be far and if Draco is getting married with a lot of blood traitors and Mudbloods, I have to be there to at least...if I'm not there and all those people see that I don't support him in this, I won't get far anywhere. I have to go, whether I like it or not. Happy! Get me high class Muggle clothing."

.

"This dress is gorgeous, Aideen," Hermione smiled dreamily and her friend twirled around happily.

"I know. It was Gran's. Aunt Kathleen had it and she sent it over. I didn't even have to have it altered. I didn't know that Gran was as tall as me when she was my age. She was my age when she got married, did you know? I'm so glad Aunt Kathleen still had it," she almost cried. She seemed to want to cry.

"I wish I had something like that of my grandmother's but...I never met either of them," Hermione shrugged. "You should consider yourself lucky."

"I do. I know she would have loved to be here with me but she is, in a way," she smiled. "And are you thinking about getting married?"

"Me? Married? No," Hermione laughed. "I'm glad that Severus and I managed at least the last two days without a fight. Not that we've seen each other much but there always seems to be something that he or I, misunderstand."

"You're both still new to this," Aideen shrugged. "But you're happy."

"Deliriously, from time to time but at others...it's hard work."

"It always is, luv," she laughed. "Don't think that Draco and me were simple. After I was...taken, and he ran away, it took a while. Seriously. Don't put too much weight on it. As long as you don't always fight...he does take you seriously, doesn't he?"

"Oh yes. We had a lovely fight last night about his new lab. He's getting a lab in the cellar..."

"Lab as in...?"

"Potions, sorry. He wants to make his own and he can't keep on brewing them in the kitchen so he wants to re-install his lab. I suppose it used to be there before but we fought about the way where to put the bench. He said it was better against one of the walls because...I can't even remember, and I thought it was better against the other wall because it was farther from the door. We fought about this. About this! And now the bench is where I suggested he put it. He does take me seriously and he and I are equal."

"I just thought because you're quite a lot younger..."

"Harry and Ron thought so too but I think given the fact that he is just as much inexperienced when it comes to relationships as I am," Hermione shrugged but blushed. She hadn't meant to say so much but her friend put an arm around her shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. Draco's told me about Severus and I asked Severus as well. I know he spent the better part of his life locked away in a castle away from all...well, suitable females. From what I heard, it was either students – and I don't mean any offence but it's different now – or old, other teachers. I would have lived celibate. Well, I would've anyway but...you know what I mean."

"I do, but Aideen, he's not the same as he was at school," she smiled. "Do you want me to help getting you out of this?"

"Oh yes, please, I just wanted to admire myself one more time," Aideen sighed. "I can't wait. But...seriously, Draco said that he was decent enough when he was a teacher."

"I suppose he was but you heard about Harry, I think, and me having been a friend of Harry's...it was...I can't blame him. I was exhausting at school. Know-it-all, he called me. It's all behind us though and I..."

"Are you in love with him? Because if you're not...we had this talk before but...are you?"

Hermione nodded shyly. "I am. I haven't told him because...I have no idea how to tell him."

"Well, words would be nice. Or you could act it out. Sign language is very popular. Oh. Write him a letter! Or an add in the paper," she laughed and as a revenge, Hermione pulled the gorgeous dress over her head and let her be stuck inside for a moment only.

"I really shouldn't help you get out of this," she grinned. "I should tell him but I'm afraid if I do it, he will think that...gosh, it's all so new to me. I don't know how to do it."

"Go with your heart, Gran would've said. And she was usually right when it came to matters like that," Aideen, her hair wild and her eyes gleaming happily smiled gently. "No, she was always right when it came to matters like this."

.

"Does it look alright?" Draco asked almost innocently. "It cost me all connections to Selfridge's. And they want me to start there again, did I tell you?"

"You won't go back to retail, Draco. And yes, it looks alright," Severus mumbled.

"What do you mean, I won't go back to retail? Someone has to earn some money around here and Aideen still needs some time until she's a doctor. Who do you think will pay for food? So far, we could live off the money that her father gives her but they pay for the wedding as well and..."

"Not retail and you will go to University or to the Ministry of Magic or somewhere. I won't have you wasted away in some dead-end job," he replied viciously.

"What brought that on?" asked Draco, curiosity spiked.

"It won't help you in the long run. If you need money, ask me and I will give you some. Apparently, the Ministry of Magic still gives me money..."

"You knew about that?"

"Do you think I'm absolutely daft? Of course I knew. And I've been saving it. I haven't used it but I wouldn't hesitate giving it to you. Don't change the topic, however."

"I'm not. But what else can I do apart from my job at Selfridge's? I will have a Muggle wife. I can't..."

"I don't know but give it more thought than just Selfridge's. There is more out there and if you need a few years at either a Wizarding or a Muggle institution of learning, I will gladly pay for it. But not retail. Not like this. I won't have any of it."

"Aideen and me talked about it a little," Draco admitted slowly. "She thinks I'm good at selling things."

"Then sell things but at least have your own business."

"I'm only good at selling things because I am capable of casting a decent Confundus Charm," he blushed.

"And that matters how? Get your own business around here. But make sure it's on steady feet and make sure that you can earn yours and Aideen's and any future children's living. Make sure you can support your family. And with a job at Selfridge's...you may. Yes, you may but this is below your potential."

"Maybe it's what I want to do..."

"Then hire a tailor or two, learn the craft and get your own shop. Be a tailor if you like doing it. But don't work for someone else."

Draco shrugged. "I'll think about it but I have to think about the wedding first. Did you know that everyone said they'd come? I can't believe it. Even McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey are coming! Even the Weasleys. And my father."

"Yes, you told me about a thousand times," Severus replied, sounding bored.

"I'm just so excited! I'm marrying Aideen!"

Severus rolled his eyes.

"No, really, Uncle Severus. You're my best man, my father will be there and she will be the most beautiful woman on earth. Have you, erm, I mean you and Hermione are quite..."

"I'm not asking her to marry me tomorrow," he rolled his eyes again.

"Why not?"

"Because I never made a promise not to have sex until marriage. And because she and I haven't been...for long. It would be too soon and..."

"But you want to be with her, right?" Draco asked with a smirk. "Thank Merlin for the Silencing Charms."

Again, he rolled his eyes. "Must you be so crude?"

"I'm not the one who...anyway, you haven't answered my question."

"Yes, yes, I want to be with her otherwise I wouldn't be."

"She is nice when you get to know her," muttered Draco. "Not my type but you two..."

"I'd be grateful if you could stop talking about my private life," Severus hissed.

"Nope, I won't. I like you and I want you to be happy. As happy as I am," Draco said wisely and shrugged out of the jacket, hanging it up neatly.

"It's nice to know," he replied sarcastically. "But I'd be very much obliged if you could keep your nose out of it."

Draco shrugged. "If you answer me one question."

"And you will shut up if I answer one question?" he asked. "One indiscreet question, no doubt."

"Not really. I was just wondering if you're in love with Granger. And I swear that I'll keep my trap shut if you answer me honestly."

"That would imply that you know what my answer will be which makes it unnecessary for me to answer," he arched his eyebrows.

"I have a suspicion but I'd like it confirmed," shrugged Draco, unbuttoning his shirt. "And preferably before I undress."

"I've seen you in nappies and only nappies."

"Nice. Anyway, will you answer or do you want me to bug you further?"

"Would I show up at your wedding with her as my...d-d-date?"

"That doesn't answer my question. It could just be a ploy to get everyone to believe that..."

"I am beginning to fall in love with her. Given a bit more time, I could love her. Is that enough to still your curiosity?"

Draco nodded and put a hand on his godfather's arm. "Thanks for telling me," he said. "It was a really good answer and now we can fully focus on my wedding!"

Severus rolled his eyes and left his godson's bedroom.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(I hope you all had a nice Christmas or just a nice few random days. In the long history of rotten Christmasses, this was one of the worst and all topped off by someone crashing into me and my car this morning due to the other driver's inability to drive in snow. I'm fine even though my neck hurts a bit and my car isn't badly hurt either but it still needs a bit of time at the shop and I have no idea where to get that time...ah well.)**_

_**Only a few more chapters. 2 or 3 depending. **_


	99. The Place of Articulation

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

.

_Once the air has passed through the larynx, it comes up and out through the mouth and/or the nose. Most consonant sounds are produced by using the tongue and other parts of the mouth to constrict, in some way, the shape of the oral cavity through which the air is passing. Th terms used to describe many sounds are those which denote the place of articulation of the sound: that is, the location, inside the mouth, at which the constriction takes place. _

(Yule, 1985)

.

"You don't mind if I'm going with you, do you?" Hermione asked, fussing with her frock, pulling it a bit there, smoothing a bit here. Severus, for the moment, was unable to answer her question. He had been ordered out of the room by Draco, for making snarky comments, and he waited in front of it for the groom to be ready to be taken to church. He never thought he could be rendered speechless by anything anyone could put on. Take off, maybe, yes, especially when Hermione rolled down stockings or...well. But he never thought he could be this taken away by...a dress. He was. Rendered absolutely speechless and his thought process was reduced to: beautiful...beautiful...beautiful. He couldn't possibly think more.

"Severus?" she asked, thumping him on the arm. "Can I go with you? Aideen'll be leaving in a moment and all her bridesmaids and maid of honour and her mother and whoever is in the car with them and if it's just the two of you...

"What?" asked Severus, slowly discovering how to speak again. But honestly, any warm-blooded man, wizard or not, would be...distracted by the sight of her. Her hair was even more tamed than usual into big, fluffy curls that begged to be touched, held back by invisible pins at the back of her head and from there, flowing down, hiding her neck. Her cheeks were dusted lightly red, or pinkish or whatever the colour was that suited her so well. Her collarbone was exposed for him to look at and he was the only one who knew how it tasted at every time. In the mornings, when he loved to have a little bite of breakfast, when she had just put on perfume and at night, when he nibbled on it for a little snack. Her breasts modestly covered up by the champagne coloured, floaty fabric that would have hung on her if she hadn't known how to fasten it cleverly. A dress made for an ancient Roman or Greek goddess that fell to the floor in large drapes and folds. Everything hidden but the gentleness of her curves and the indent of her waist and...he wondered if his mouth stood open or if he was drooling.

"Severus? Are you quite alright?" she asked, putting her hand on his chest.

"I'm fine," he croaked and if he was indeed drooling, that was at least an explanation why his mouth suddenly felt so dry.

"Can I go with you then?"

He nodded silently.

"You are really strange. Is something the matter? Would you prefer me to go with Aideen? I thought we had talked about it...it's only fair that she takes only Muggle friends as bridesmaids and whatever else you need as a bride. And I honestly didn't want to do it. Have you seen what they're wearing? I wouldn't want to be..."

"I see what you're wearing," he managed to get out of his very dry mouth.

"What?" she asked. "Severus, really, what's going on?"

"You're gorgeous. Beautiful," he blurted, quite loudly.

"Huh?"

"Beautiful," he repeated, his tone a bit gentler this time and the pinkish-reddish-lovely dusting on her cheeks intensified.

"Thank you. I got the dress and Madame Bovvage's. Do you know the shop? It's in York. I didn't know they had a Wizarding Robe Shop there but there it was and I can eat as much as I like in the dress and don't have to..."

Severus interrupted her. He didn't need explanation. He didn't need reasons. He needed this goddess in front of him to kiss him. Or he needed himself to kiss her. It didn't matter and without any further ado, while she babbled on nonsense about eating and tucking her tummy in and whatnot, he pulled her so close to his body that not a single fold or drape could have fit between them. Her collarbone looked rather inviting but he needed her to be quiet first. No, he needed her to stop saying sentence that actually made sense. She could babble nonsense like his name or whatever other vowel come to her mind and the moment his lips made contact with his, a low groaning came straight from her chest. Those were the sounds he wanted – needed – her to make. No explanations why she had bought this dress.

He slowly moved to her neck and to her collarbone, sampling, tasting when a cough interrupted him. He had quite forgot about his godson and about the wedding and everything else.

"You could think that it was you two getting married," he grumbled nervously. "Granger, you look adequate."

"Thank you," she smiled at him, but at least he didn't manage to make her blush like he had. That should be his prerogative and his only.

"Can we go?" the boy asked, fidgeting with his tie and waistcoat.

"Just a moment," said Severus, recovering just in time. He pulled the little black package he had managed to wrap in time, and to get in time, out of his own pocket and handed it to Draco. "It would be...irresponsible to give this to you in front of all your guests. It's my, erm, our gift for you and Aideen."

"Our?" Hermione whispered, looking at him.

"Our gift. From us to you," he managed to say without a stutter. Even if she had found them a present, it didn't matter. This...it had to come from them as a couple. And they were a couple. If she could take his breath away, and his speech, by merely wearing a dress...he knew he was gone. And he was. Quite clearly. Gone. She had him in her palm. As long as she could wear dresses like this and roll down her stockings and...better not go there.

"It is usually tradition of..."

"Let him unwrap it, Severus," Hermione smiled at him curiously. "And you're complaining that I talk to much."

She was right. He did. Usually. But this present, it was their future and he had only presumed that Lucius, even if he showed up at the wedding, would not be giving this to his son. And he should have it. He should have it and he should get it from someone who cared. He cared, and he could admit to it, and Hermione...belonged to him. They were a 'they', not a 'he' and a 'she'. They. Them. Together. He shook himself out of his linguistic musing and his nervousness and watched as his godson unwrapped the black box and stared at the little black box itself.

"What is it?" he asked, eyes shining.

"Open it," Severus said and he felt a little hand pushing against his, into his and fingers grasping his.

His godson, eyes locked on the box and fingers trembling opened it and he lout out, barely a second later, a loud scream of joy quite suitable for a boy twenty years younger them himself. Or maybe fifteen years younger. Younger, at least.

"Uncle Severus, you've...did you...how...Goblins..."

"Oh my gosh, you found him this watch-thingy?" Hermione gushed. "But I thought only Goblins made it and you...how did you get there? How did you make them make one?"

He smirked. At least his...Hermione was still more eloquent and he made a mental note to get her a bigger one in time. Not yet and not in the next few months or years even but as soon as...well. He could get her one sooner if it didn't require...marriage.

"And Aideen's on it as well," Draco managed a complete sentence. So, he had talked a little to a Grobdiak, the Goblin who had managed his account and he had brought him into contact with another Goblin whose name Severus couldn't possible pronounce and he had, upon seeing Severus, immediately agreed to make a watch for Draco. A watch which, ultimately, showed the time as well – but it was also a pocket-version of the same clock Molly Weasley had, if he remembered correctly, in her kitchen. So far, only two hands were on it. His and Aideen's and while his was pointed at 'travelling' (which was a bit imprecise. He would have to talk to the Goblin about it before he gave on to Hermione or to himself...probably better get one for himself), hers was still at 'home'. There was room for a few more hands, naturally, but he hoped they weren't needed for a long, long time.

"And don't think you have to hurry with getting children just because the watch adjusts itself," he managed to say before he found himself in a stranglehold by his godson, arms wrapped tightly around his neck and...he hadn't been hugged by the boy since before he had started Hogwarts. Never.

"Thank you," he heard being whispered into his neck time and time again. "Thank you. Thank you."

"How did you get it?" asked Hermione smiling a little slyly, a little proudly, a little astonished.

"I have connections," he said and disentangled the groom's arms from around him. "Pull yourself together, Draco. There is a chain in the box as well and I suggest you put it on. It will show the time for all Muggles except those on the watch, like Aideen. At least that's what the Goblin said."

.

He always could surprise. Giving a watch like this to Draco was such a surprise. Staring at her in wide-eyed wonder as he had seen her in the dress was another. Truly, that he could have it in him...such a thoughtful present, and including her in the giving of it? She didn't know what to say to this and it was probably best that she didn't. She knew he wouldn't be able to cope very well with her telling him that she truly loved what he had done. He never did, and he never did like being thanked. She knew that rather well.

And so, when Draco examined the watch a little more closely, and adjusted the chain to his waistcoat, she turned to Severus and put her hands on his chest. She didn't say anything. She only smiled at him and pushed herself up at her tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss on his cheek. Even that, he didn't cope well with. She had to smile as he arched his eyebrows. Of course he understood this as a sign of her gratitude. He would and he didn't like it. She kissed his other cheek and then turned to Draco.

"And? Ready?" she asked in what she hoped was an encouraging tone. She had heard that even men could go to pieces in such situations and now that the watch was in his pocket and he looked rather distinguished with it, he did look a little peaky.

"I, erm, I think I am," he stuttered.

"We're apparating to a little back alley and walk the rest of the way. We're early enough so there are not other people around," said Severus, taking Hermione's hand as inconspicuously as he could and looked at her. "Shall we?"

She nodded. "Draco?"

"I'll find my way," he said and a second later, he was gone, popped away and Hermione turned to her...Severus again.

She knew she couldn't hold her tongue. It was just too hard when he looked at her like he wanted to eat her and when he had given Draco that watch in their name. Their name! "That was so thoughtful of you, Severus," she whispered almost reverently.

"They owed me a favour," he replied gruffly.

"Who?"

"The Goblins," he shook his head. "That was what you were referring to, wasn't it?"

She smirked and to take the easy way out, she nodded. "Yes, it was," she whispered before she pulled his face down to hers and let him kiss her. Or the other way round. They were still locked in the kiss and she was revelling in it (truly, that man could kiss once he set his mind to it, and if he didn't set his mind to it, and all the time) and so, she barely noticed that he had apparated both of them behind the church that Draco was supposed to be married in. The groom was nowhere to be found though, even when she could see straight again.

"Where is he?" she asked, licking his taste off her lips and smiling at his expression. Sometimes, it was easy.

"Probably running away," he replied off-handedly and began to walk, pulling her with him around the church to the front. Draco sat there on the stairs, his chin on his knees.

.

It was too early. He wasn't ready. He didn't know how to be a husband. The only husband he really knew what his father and his father wasn't even a husband anymore. He didn't know how to act around Aideen now. What he should do and now they were getting married, the could have sex, and what if he didn't live up to her expectations and what if they were incompatible in that area? What if...he had to sit on the stairs in front of the church, his head spinning too fast for him to follow.

Rationally, he knew that he wanted to spend his life with Aideen and rationally, he knew he just had last minute jitters. He knew he was acting this way because...well, it was nervousness. Nothing more, nothing less. That was what his rapidly dwindling rationality told him. The rest, whatever it was, told him to run but his legs wouldn't budge, wouldn't move, were made of clay. He had invited a whole bunch of idiotic people. People he would have never considered inviting. People who would have never considered coming to his wedding two, three years ago. People who had said they would come. People who would be coming and people he was nervous to see. People who would, no doubt, judge him.

"Draco?" he heard a voice far away but he could only ignore it. He couldn't lift his head. He didn't have the strength and he couldn't run away. He tried to focus on Aideen, she was the one he was doing this for after all and he knew he loved her unconditionally but her face was only blurry in his head. Everything was rather blurry.

"Oi, Malfoy! If you wanna chicken out, you should run now, your first guests have arrived!" he heard a loud voice next to his er. He couldn't quite place it yet and his head could slowly move again – towards the voice.

"Really, Malfoy," he could see a face to the voice. Hair that was redder than Aideen's. Eyes that were blue and freckles. Loads and loads of freckles. Weasley.

"Leave him be, Ron," he heard another voice. Potter. Potter.

"Her-My-Oh-Nee," a child. This was a child's voice.

"Do not give him to Hermione," his godfather. Clearly.

"Don't worry, Severus," Granger. Granger laughing. And he could still only see Weasley's face. Which wasn't very attractive. "He will be good, won't you, Ted? Hello Noel."

"Mister Miner," his godfather.

"Mister Snape, Hermione," a strange voice.

"Seriously," Weasley's mouth was moving so he assumed it was him speaking. "Malfoy. Really. You should get in gear. Either you run away or you don't and snap out of it. I know there are Muggles coming and Harry's boyfriend is a Muggle so you shouldn't apparate, even if he knows about magic but I think I could shift their attention away for a moment if you want to get away."

His head snapped up completely. "How dare you?" he glowered.

And Weasley – Weasley – had the audacity to grin. "I only wanted you to snap out of that," he smirked. "My brother Bill had the same thing before he got married. We had to shock him into getting a move on but he did and he's happy and they're expecting their second child. So..." Weasley shrugged. "I bet Harry wouldn't mind if you came to Grimmauld Place if you don't act like an arse. But Hermione says you're not quite the arse anymore. I reserve my judgement."

"Don't you never shut up?" Malfoy hissed.

"Not likely. Not until you have the ring on your finger or have run away."

"You make me want to run away," he grumbled.

"But you won't because you want to get married, Malfoy," Weasley grinned and stood up, his hand hovering in the air as if he wanted to help him up. He couldn't possibly want to help him up. A Weasley. Imagine that. But his tactic had obviously worked and he had got hold of his thoughts again. He loved Aideen. Aideen was his family. She was the woman he wanted to have a family with and that was why he was doing it. They already lived together, nothing would change. They would share a bed. But since they already shared a life, it wouldn't be too hard. He could do it. Nobody set rules how a husband should be. He would love her, he would honour her and he would cherish her. And all the rest, he was sure she would tell him what she wanted, what she expected. He could do it.

Weasley still had his hand hovering there and without thinking, he grasped it, let himself be pulled up at the moment a few of Aideen's relatives arrived. Her father, her brother, some of her cousins. He couldn't let them see how he had felt mere minutes ago and he nodded at Weasley who still grinned like a loon, then nodded at his godfather and as dignified as he could with Severus on his heels, he entered the church.

.

While Aideen looked rather nice standing there, he had a better view of Hermione who looked gorgeous. Dignified. Beautiful. Mature. Not like a girl at all. She looked like a woman who knew how to sit, how to smile, how to be entirely enticing. But he could let his eyes wander. It was a bit impolite, he knew, not to pay his full attention to the happy couple and the clergyman up there but it was simple to look once in a while. Minerva McGonagall in a long dress that had last been worn sometimes in the 1950ies, possibly. Poppy Pomfrey wearing the same style. Neville Longbottom and the girl he remembered as Hannah Abbott next to him in a tux and a shift dress. The entire Weasley clan – some better dressed than others. Luna Lovegood who had abandoned her radish-earrings for the Muggle variety sitting amongst them. The only sea of blonde now that the eldest' and his wife were missing.

He had to admit to himself that he wasn't paying any attention to the ceremony as soon as his eyes fell on Hermione. Each time. He hadn't expected this. He couldn't explain it. She had been...at first...the one whom he thought he could like, could imagine being with but now, now, that he had got to know her, got to know her entire being, most of her moods, had fought with her, had made up again, had even listened to her when it had come to that bloody bench in that bloody cellar and had put it where she had suggested, he knew that she had him. Completely.

He had lied to Draco before. He wasn't beginning to fall in love with her. With that person smiling so beautifully up at him, he was in love. With the person who had thanked him with her eyes and her lips when he had said that the watch was their gift. And it was. Without Hermione, he couldn't have ever thought of it. He couldn't help that he always wanted to know that she was well and where she was. He couldn't help it. And if he could imagine that Draco felt the same way. That he always wanted to know she was okay, especially after that incident with Andromeda Tonks. It was her fault. All her fault. She had grabbed his heart, had pushed herself into it, and had seemed to make permanent room in it. She lived in it now and he felt absolutely no remorse by seeing all those witches and wizards in bad Muggle clothing. He felt no remorse. He felt nothing. Those were people from a former life, barely remembered in this life now. All those who hadn't stood by him. All those who hadn't spoken up for him. Or maybe they had, maybe they hadn't been heard. All those that hadn't trusted him. All those that had doubted Dumbledore. He didn't care anymore. His life was another now. He liked having his wand close by and he revelled in the fact that he could apparate and disapparate, that he could brew potions but to go back to all those witches and wizards? See that stern look of McGonagall's every day? Remembering every day that she had tried to kill him? No. Definitely not. He had been made an outcast of that world and he liked remaining that outcast. He had never fit in anywhere. In his, albeit odd, family, he belonged, he fit. Draco accepted him without doubt, Aideen in a way, admired him and Hermione...Hermione. She had, in a way, left the Wizarding World as well. She was studying a typical Muggle art. Yes, she had plans to reform the Wizarding World with her knowledge but she had chosen a Muggle way. She had turned away from her former teachers (all but him, it seemed) and had barely greeted them at all.

Strange.

Strange how they had all fought to keep the Wizarding World the way it was, and then turning their backs to it.

Strange.

He only noticed by everyone getting up that the ceremony was over, that Aideen and Draco were married, had been married, that Aideen proudly carried herself and the name of Malfoy. That she looked quite pretty in her grandmother's wedding dress but he did notice that Hermione smiled for him, for only him and that she waited for him to lent her his arm. He didn't care that everyone seemed to have more eyes for him and her together, walking down the aisle behind the couple. He didn't care. Not about them.

.

_**Thank you!**_

_**(I seem to be fine from the accident. The insurance (the kid's, not mine) will pay for the broken fender and I can still drive with the car. Thank you very much for your concern! I didn't sign anything because there was no police present. It didn't seem necessary since it was really nobody's but the icy road's fault and the poor kid only got his licence and I don't want to be the one to cause him trouble. In case I don't hear from you, or you from me, before the New Year, I wish you a happy start to it!)**_


	100. Semantics

_**The usual disclaimers apply. **_

_._

_Semantics is the study of the meaning of words, phrases and sentences. In semantic analysis, there is always an attempt to focus on what the words conventionally mean, rather than on what a speaker might want the words to mean on a particular occasion. This technical approach to meaning emphasizes the objective and the general. It avoids the subjective and the local. Linguistic semantics deals with the conventional meaning conveyed by the use of words and sentences of a language._

(Yule, 1985)

.

And suddenly, Lucius Malfoy stood there. She hadn't noticed him not being inside but apparently, he hadn't been. He stood a few feet away, observing the procession out of the small church, absolutely no expression visible on his face. Hermione could see how he watched Draco kissing Aideen and smiling and her laughing and giggling and clutching her new husband's arm, looking absolutely lovely in her grandmother's dress. She, at the same time, tugged on Severus's arm and nodded her head towards Malfoy, standing there, looking a little lost but astonishingly...Muggle in what looked like an expensive pinstripe suit.

"Was he in church?" she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head. "I haven't seen him in there," he answered.

"Hm,"she mumbled and was dragged away for pictures but she kept her eyes on the father of the groom. He didn't look like he belonged and if his face hadn't been so obviously neutral, she thought he should have looked sad. Not outraged at all. Just...as if what he saw didn't mean anything to him.

She took her heart in her hands and as she looked at her...Severus, he rolled his eyes. "Just tell them," he whispered as if he could read her mind, while he kept his own neutral expression on his own face. One picture of him would be great, the thought interrupted her other thoughts, where he was smiling. She'd keep that forever. Definitely. She shook her self.

"Are you using...you know what?" she whispered back, a glance at Aideen's Muggle aunt next to her. Severus smirked and nudged her towards the happy couple, posing for pictures (Muggle pictures). She rolled her own eyes but made her way through the entire wedding party towards Draco and Aideen, then decided against talking to them and swam back through the crowd and slipped away, towards Malfoy. He should be on the photos, no matter if he looked like he didn't belong. One day, all of them would regret it if he wasn't – he would, they would. She strode, as quickly and as inconspicuously towards the lonesome man standing there and in a Muggle suit, and without the cane, he looked a hell of a lot less intimidating.

"Hello," she said politely.

He only nodded his head in reply but said nothing, didn't even spare her more than a glance, still looked at his son and his new daughter-in-law.

"You should be on the photos as well," she said quietly. "And congratulate them."

"You should, Lucius," she felt a large hand on her shoulder and felt her...Severus's warmth on her back. She didn't turn around to look at him but Lucius looked rather...surprised, especially as his absence had not gone quite as unnoticed as hers had and too many pairs of eyes were on them now, even that of the happy couple. She didn't want to turn away from Lucius but she just had to look at Draco. His expression was more surprised than shocked, more curious than scared but she could tell that this particular picture – the flash just having gone off again – would most definitely not go on their mantel. It might go on hers, however, she bit back a wholly unsuitable grin. She understood his feelings – but it looked too divine to see him with his mouth hanging open like this and his eyebrows almost touching his hairline.

She wasn't sure when he began walking or if he was dragged forwards by Aideen. She wasn't sure whether he knew what he was doing but it wasn't far to where Malfoy was standing and it seemed Severus was holding his breath also.

"Father," Draco said. "I don't believe you have met my wife yet. Officially. This is Aideen Malfoy," he continued defiantly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Missus Malfoy," Malfoy said and his voice sounded...strange.

She bent over to Severus and pushed herself up on her tiptoes. "Is he under something?"

He shook his head. "I don't think so," his warm breath tickled her neck and he seemed to sniff, or smell or...she wasn't sure what but h bent even closer and he could feel his lips against the shell of her ear for barely a second. She couldn't remember what she wanted to say. Or anything. He had touched her in a rather...intimate...way in front of all these people. With a camera nearby – even if it wasn't pointed towards them.

"It's lovely that you could come," Aideen beamed proudly. "It was a rather nice service, don't you think?" she asked innocently and wrapped her arm around Draco, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

"Yes," Malfoy lied.

"But why don't you stand over there with us? You have to be on the pictures!" she sounded too girlish for Hermione's taste. Too excited. But maybe that happened when you got married. And she actually disentangled herself from her snuggle with her new husband and grasped Malfoy's hand, pulling him towards her party. Took his hand! Malfoy's hand. Lucius Malfoy's hand.

"I'll have to cut that arm off," Draco muttered darkly. "Having been touched by something so...dirty."

He walked away, tried on a smile which didn't look quite as sincere as it has a few minutes ago but as Severus made no move to go back, she remained by his side as well.

"Do you think he will spoil it?" she asked, looking straight ahead and watching, with great interest, how Aideen put him next to her so that Potter was behind him, the Weasleys behind him, all the witches and wizards in fact, behind him.

"If he had wanted to spoil it, I don't think anything could have kept him from being in that church," he replied, staring as well.

"Why wasn't he?"

"Who knows? Maybe making an effort not to spoil it or maybe his...faith... kept him from going in. I don't know. Shall we go ahead to the reception-thing?"

"No more pictures?" she grinned up at him as he scowled. An adorable scowl and so predictable.

He took her hand, and pulled her, much like Aideen had pulled Malfoy, in the next Alley and around the corner, checked that nobody saw them and apparated with her.

.

He stood up and tried to hide his scowl.

He had seen Skeeter buzzing around in her Animagus form. He had seen the photographer disguised as a Muggle and seemingly unnoticed by all the other guests. He had even managed to get a decent Muggle camera. And it seemed quite likely now that Hermione had noticed her as well, and if he remembered correctly, she had been the one to reveal that bloody person as an unregistered animagus, and that explained, quite well, why she kept a respectable distance and why she hadn't even taken his hand. He didn't care – he took her hand as he stood and while he didn't quite smile at her, he shot her a brief, benevolent glance.

So – his picture would most certainly be in a newspaper in the Wizarding World in the morning. He found himself that he didn't mind at all. He had no dealings with the Wizarding World anymore. He hadn't even said one word to any of the wizards or witches present – apart from Draco or Hermione. McGonagall had tried to fight her way through to him. A few of the Weasleys had but the food had just been there in time and he could sit peacefully between Aideen and Hermione and eat. He would have to think of something after the toasts and speeches and whatnot. Maybe he could make Hermione dance all the time and threaten her with...well, she would have to sleep at home if she let someone cut in. Well. Maybe not. Maybe that was more of a punishment for him. He would think of something better. After he had to give this damn speech. He had something prepared but...with Skeeter buzzing around and probably registering everything in that minute brain of hers, he would have to keep up appearances.

He arched his eyebrow and raised his glass.

"Draco, Aideen, I wish you good luck. Here's to you," he said quickly, toasted towards them and took a sip of the awful champagne before he sat down.

"Severus?" Aideen asked, bewildered just as Hermione took his hand.

"Did you see her as well?" she whispered by his side.

"Yes," he told her, then turned to Aideen. "It was my speech. You didn't seriously expect me to compose a ballad for you? Or an ode?"

She giggled. "No, not seriously but you made it difficult for poor Dad. He's confused now."

He shrugged his shoulder and took another sip of the awful champagne. That badly disguised photographer, who wasn't quite so badly disguised, had taken at least three pictures of him. Or maybe more – one picture for every word. It didn't matter. And it didn't matter to him if all of them knew that he was corrupting Hermione Granger (not that he was corrupting her – but they would see it that way). They had thrown him out. They hadn't wanted him to be a part of their world anymore and he didn't feel obliged to stick to their rules or live by their conventions. He made his own rules these days and he didn't need the approval of people anymore.

Well, maybe hers. And a bit of Draco's. But the rest of the world could happily go to hell and could think about him what they wanted.

He only hoped that Hermione saw it the same way. He couldn't force her to admit to...them... under the public eye like this when she knew that it would be in the paper. He couldn't make her. If she decided not to want to...be seen with him, not to be associated with him, he couldn't stop her. He felt the scowl creep on his face and he couldn't listen to anymore speeches. The champagne tasted awful and he only had champagne and water and wine within his grasp. He longed for something stronger, something that would burn in his throat and warm his stomach.

If she didn't want to...he wouldn't know what to do. He would never force her to do anything but she still had a foot in the Wizarding World while he only had a wand.

Quite suddenly, he heard a chair scratching over the floor and just as suddenly, a hand put on his pulled him out of his maudlin thoughts.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her face showing sweet concern. His thoughts – all for naught. She had put her hand there and her face was incredibly close to his.

He nodded, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't possibly say anything with her intoxicating scent in his nose and her warmth so close to him. And with her hand on his and her finger caressing his finger. She didn't want to hide this. He cleared his throat. Maybe she hadn't seen Skeeter. Maybe she hadn't noticed her and her photographer. Maybe she didn't mind seeing the family and the Weasleys, who knew, possibly, already. Though the glances that Molly Weasley shot them...they didn't know. Could it be that Ronald Weasley had shut up? That Harry Potter was too busy with his lover that he hadn't mentioned it? He did look rather...busy. And he couldn't see any hands of those two. Not good.

He cleared his throat again. "Have you seen..."

"Skeeter? Yeah. But I suppose that was to be expected. I mean Draco really invited anyone who's anyone and they all turned up," she groaned.

"And they're all staring at us," he grumbled. His plan had worked so far. They had all turned up, including Lucius. And Lucius seemed to be in a rather deep discussion with Longbottom of all people. He had never pitied Longbottom but he did look rather pitiful at the moment.

"I don't care that they do," she whispered in his ear and he could hear the lens of the camera click. He could hear it. This was clearer than any snogging or hugging. He let her be so close and he knew that a tiny smile had appeared on his face when she had said it. She didn't care what they did. She had entwined her fingers with his and he could tell that she was close to at least kissing his cheek, he could tell. All around him was forgotten. He barely registered the music starting and Draco and Aideen getting up. He knew he would have to have a word with Lucius and he would have to try hard to escape McGonagall and the Weasleys and Lovegood and Longbottom but in that moment when she was so close to him, he didn't care about any of this. They could be, for all he cared, and he had never been so careless in his life, in his living room or his kitchen.

"But it'll be in the papers," he whispered suddenly, her mouth coming closer to his.

"Do you want to..." she pulled back slightly and the spell was over. Suddenly.

"Do I want to what?" he asked, feeling that slight pang of disappointment that she was so far away now again.

"Keep this secret?" she whispered, flapping her hands between them and he sighed. Of course she would think that.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he grumbled and noticed now that there was music playing and that Draco and Aideen weren't the only ones on the dance floor. He also noticed McGonagall getting up together with Pomfrey and aiming towards them. He only had one choice.

.

He was so close and she wanted to just slip into his lap and sit there and kiss him and...just talk to him without so many people there. And she wasn't sure what he wanted, that it was alright for him that she had scooted closer. She just didn't know until...

"Keep this secret?" she asked, afraid of his answer. If he wanted to, she would. Not that people didn't know already. Harry knew and she wasn't sure how much Ron had told his family. Not a lot, by the looks that Molly Weasley had thrown her and Severus when they had walked out of that church. Well, they had walked out of that church together. That should have tipped people off – but she more or less trusted most of them present not to talk to the press. And then there was Skeeter buzzing around. Apparently registered. Not that it made it easier to see a bug, or notice a bug and neither Draco nor anyone else seemed to have noticed her. All but Severus. But it had been Severus's life for such a long time to see what others didn't – he should see her. And that photographer with the new and fancy Muggle camera that didn't seem to have a seat somewhere and that nobody questioned. Not while there were more than a hundred people present in any case.

She, on the other hand, didn't want to keep it secret. She didn't care if they were on the front page of the Daily Prophet. She didn't care if people looked down on her. She didn't spend a lot of time in the Wizarding World such as it was and she didn't intend to. Let them talk. They were only jealous after all because they had obviously all come to see him – the way they were staring at him – and she knew him. She knew him better than most of those people who sat there. Maybe better than anyone by now. She knew what he liked, what he disliked. He knew what kind of discussions you could have with him and when to have them. She knew. And she was the one he wanted to see.

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," he stated suddenly and a moment later, he stood up and held his hand to hers. "Dance with me," he said, surprising her terribly and in a daze, she got up, feeling all the eyes on her.

"It's not fair on Draco and Aideen," she muttered to herself but of course he would hear her.

"It was the only way I could Lucius Malfoy to come," he said, wrapping her in his arms. Well, almost in his arms. One of his arms was around him, the other came up to hold her hand. It was still respectable and there was a least a bit of distance between their bodies.

"Hm," she shrugged her shoulder, revelling in his closeness, even if she could hear the camera clicking. "You really don't mind that our picture will be in the paper in the morning?"

He sneered – which he hadn't done in a long time – and his arms came fully around her, one of his hands in her hair tilting her head up before he gave her a brief kiss full on the mouth and then pressed her head against his chest so she could feel his chin or cheek on her hair. She hadn't felt this loved in her life. Not ever. Not once. She couldn't say it yet, it was too early but she did love him. And she'd show him. In any way that she could.

.

"You really don't mind that our picture will be in the paper in the morning?" she asked, rubbing her cheek against his chest.

"No," he said a moment later, after having acted the way he would have never thought he would act in public.

"You really don't mind," she stated, muffled against his chest and he knew he had to make it clear. She, obviously, didn't care. She pressed herself against him and they were more hugging than dancing in any case.

"No, and why should I mind," he replied back, the softness of her hair tickling his cheek, the curves of her body fitting perfectly to his and her grasp on his back wonderfully reassuring.

"I don't know. I don't care about their opinions. Skeeter can't harm me anymore but you..." she shrugged.

"What that world thinks is none of my concern anymore, Hermione," he began slowly, pressing his lips on top of her head for a moment before he continued. "They are not the people I want to have around me. It's not my world anymore."

She raised her head slightly to look at him and he took the chance, not hearing the camera click, to give her a deep, loving kiss. He wasn't brave enough to say it yet but he felt it – and he would try to show it with more than kisses – but those were a start. For now. In public. And he had to explain one more thing. He kissed her briefly once more before he tucked her head beneath his chin again.

"Spinner's End is my world. I didn't think it would ever be but it is. My godson is part of that world. Aideen, University, linguistics. And you," he said, finding his voice hoarse suddenly and tipped her chin up, resting his forehead against hers, brushing her nose with his, holding her very tight to his body. Nothing could have fit between them, not even a piece of paper, no bit of parchment. Not even the tiniest bit of air. "You're my world."

.

_**End**_

_**.**_

_**No epilogue. That's it. The end of the story. Hate me for it if you like. It ended the way I wanted it to end and I'm happy with it. Some of you were right. I'm writing stories for myself, not for anyone else. Reviews are love and reviews are much needed from time to time to keep the motivation going but in the end, I write the stories I write for myself. Like it or leave it. I hope you do like it though. I also didn't end it here because I desperately wanted to write a hundred chapters. It just happened to be a hundred chapters. **_

_**Thank you for all of your feedback and thanks to all those who encouraged me in PMs and who let me vent. I couldn't have managed to write this opus magnus without you. **_

_**The next story will be a Severus/OC. I need a break from Hermione (and I know that some of you will now shriek and tell me that they won't read an OC because of – insert any reason. It will be different and lovely and more focused on love than this one (and quicker than this one) without it being a Mary Sue. I hope I'll see some of you there as well. **_

_**Thank you!**_


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